No Rest for the Wicked
by missdromeda
Summary: Esmae Baratheon was the golden darling of the Seven Kingdoms, or so the measly common folk liked to call the firstborn child of the glorious king Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei. The princess, however, was anything but a darling, and despised the ridiculous name with a passion.
1. Summary

Esmae Baratheon was the golden darling of the Seven Kingdoms, or so the measly common folk liked to call the firstborn child of the glorious king Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei. Dawn after a long night, Robert Baratheon's daughter was the first ray of light in the darkness brought on by the terrors of the civil war, symbolizing the beauty of the new era of prosperity and peace.

The princess, however, was anything _but_ a darling and despised the ridiculous name with a passion. She had no desire to be loved by the people, for love entailed high expectations and she couldn't care less about living up to those. Esmae was her mother's child through and through, and although she had inherited her father's dark locks, one look of the girl's cunning emerald eyes left room for no doubt. Those were the eyes of a lioness, shrewd and watchful, rimmed by thick dark eyelashes, a languid bat of which fooled many a man into thinking her innocent.

Esmae grew up playing the best dolls King Landing's craftsmen had to offer, but as the years went by, the princess found that the play was so much more interesting when her toys had more to lose than just their wooden heads. And so she put the dolls aside in favor of a game much sweeter, where the stakes were high, people as disposable as puppets and where one mistake could cost you your life.

The game of thrones.

**A/N:** _Heeeeey guys, I'm finally back and guess what? I come bearing gifts! Yes, it is another fic. Yes, I haven't finished the previous one. No, it is not abandoned! Yes, I intend to finish it. This story is just something I have been thinking a lot about recently, and I wanted to put it out there for you guys to decide if you'd be interested in reading something like this. _

_Anyways, I hope this story finds its readers! I can't wait for you guys to see the inner workings of the devious mind of Cersei Lannister's protégé... _


	2. Two sides of the same coin

**A/N:** _Hey guys! Wow, I didn't expect to see such a response to this story! Thank you so much! Here's the first chapter, it's a little short, I admit, but fret not, chapters will get longer as the story progresses. _

_Also, I thought I should make some things clear: this story doesn't have a pairing yet, which means that Esmae might end up with anyone, really...It also depends on you guys, I intend to listen to what you have to say! Another thing is that this fic will mostly follow the show with something from the books thrown into the mix here and there, but mostly the show. I really appreciate your interest and comments, for they are what gives me the motivation to write instead of lazing around and complaining about _having_ to write. _

_Alright, without further ado, here's the chapter! _

* * *

Jon Arryn was dead.

Esmae Baratheon lingered in the doors of the Throne Room, watching the Silent Sisters with a distant look in her calculative eyes. She could be cruel and she could be heartless, and she didn't care enough to try and conceal it even at the man's funeral. However, Esmae was not by any means stupid and was fully aware of the grave consequences his passing would undoubtedly entail.

Jon Arryn was a good man — a sort rarely encountered in their midsts, and, what was even more important, he used to keep the King safely at bay. Losing an honorable man was a tragedy, but losing an honorable man, who didn't let her father drink himself into oblivion and waste the crown's money on whores and gruesome tournaments was an issue. An issue that Esmae had to take care of before the Queen managed to take any action.

Esmae often found herself admiring her mother. When the princess was younger, she would listen to uncle Tyrion telling her and Joffrey stories about the greatest Queens the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen — Vysenia and Rhaenys, two sides of the same coin: beauty and rage, sternness and mischief. Oftentimes Esmae couldn't but compare them to her mother, for she was as beautiful and sometimes, if she'd had enough wine to drink, as playful as the sweet Rhaenys and could be as fearsome and unrelenting as the warrior-Queen Vysenia.

Cersei Lanniser was powerful; she reveled in this power and wielded it like a Valyrian sword, cutting through everything and everyone that stood in her way with a single swing of the blade. Another thing about Cersei Lannister was that she was no stranger to getting drunk — on wine and power alike. And that was exactly what Esmae feared the death of Jon Arryn, however natural, would cause.

Esmae raised her eyes from the captivating ministrations of the Stranger's wives and caught a glimpse of her mother's golden mane. She felt one of her eyebrows arch in surprise — Esmae didn't take Cersei Lannister for a sentimental type. Working her features into a solemn expression, the princess discretely walked towards her mother and joined her, all in complete silence. Cersei didn't acknowledge her daughter's presence in any way, and Esmae knew it to be a good sign — had it been anyone else but family, Cersei Lannister's guard would have been up in an instant.

"It is a shame," she finally said without taking her eyes off of the ceremony, "your father valued him greatly."

"He served him well," Esmae nodded and waited a moment before speaking the next words, "I am yet to express my condolences to Lady Lysa. I didn't wish to bother her, she was grieving so, and their little boy…"

"I'm afraid you'll have to write her a letter," Cersei answered, her voice distant. If Esmae didn't know her mother, she'd think she looked distracted. Or was it worry?

"Oh?" Esmae wondered innocently.

At last, the Queen's eyes left the procession and moved to study her daughter, "Lysa Arryn has decided to return to the Vale. Her son is the Lord now, it was time he visited the land he is to rule over."

Esmae felt a little tug on her lips at her mother's explanation — she wondered how much time it took her to come up with it. Lysa Arryn was a woman mad, and the only thing that would make her travel so far with her sickly child, and at such short notice at that, was the constant paranoia of getting murdered. _A quite justified one,_ Esmae mused.

"What a strange woman," she sighed, watching the Silent Sisters circle Jon Arryn's body, "It appears she was in such a hurry to claim her role as Lady Regent, she forgot to lay her husband to rest."

Esmae stole a look at her mother, but Cersei remained impassive, giving away nothing, "She always has been rather…unstable."

"I suppose so," Esmae relented gently.

No, she decided, it was not her mother's doing. For Cersei Lannister looked as puzzled by what had happened as the rest of the court. She didn't have that knowing twinkle in her emerald eyes that always gave Esmae a maddening sense of inadequacy — like she had missed an important turn in the game and was slacking behind. She didn't like that feeling at all.

A sound of languid steps echoed through the passage.

"You two are a perfect picture of grief," a voice observed, causing the mother and daughter to raise their eyes at the intruder. When a Westerosi maiden dreamed of a noble knight in shining armor, she dreamed of one knight in particular — Ser Jaime of House Lannister. It always amused Esmae just how much good looks could forgive — she knew it firsthand. People always saw what they wanted to see and stayed blind to things that displeased them — it was a terrible way to live, wrapped up in the lies of one's own making, but not the worst way to survive. More often than not, however, it was what got you killed.

"Worry does not become you, niece, and the King is yet to make you a match. Try to be more cheerful, no husband wants a wife whose face is wrinkled by a constant state of distress."

"I should hope a King for a father and a generous amount of gold will make up for that," Esmae replied sweetly.

Jaime smiled at her witty retort and didn't miss the smirk that appeared on his sister's face. It was plain how much Cersei cared for her children — as a lioness should — her eldest daughter, however, held a special place in her heart. It was for this reason that she could sometimes be harsh with Esmae, seeing too much of herself in the girl as the years went by.

Nobody liked to acknowledge their faults, much less Cersei Lannister, and she happened to give birth to their pure embodiment. It was in moments like this, however, moments that showed how strong and sharp-minded her daughter was, that the Queen felt reassured — one's faults could easily turn into weapons if used correctly.

"I'm going to take my leave now," Esmae announced with a sigh and planted a kiss on her mother's cheek, "I suppose I will see you at supper."

She knew when her company was not needed.

Esmae watched her somber reflection in the looking glass while her new handmaid was fussing about the elaborate dress she had chosen to wear to the supper. It was a fine gown of rich sapphire color with long, flowing sleeves that almost reached the floors in a beauteous cascade. The princess could easily see the struggle in the girl's graceless moves — she was new to the court, no doubt, a little unscathed flower, mayhaps even from Highgarden, if her green, floral dress was anything to go by.

"What is your name?" her question startled the clumsy handmaid. She raised her eyes timidly and quickly drew them away, getting caught under Esmae's scrutinizing gaze.

"Melysa, your Highness," she mumbled.

"I haven't seen you before. You're new to the capital, I take it?"

"Y-yes, Princess," Melysa tried to adjust the corset and failed miserably at it.

Esmae fought the urge to roll her eyes. She padded the handmaid's hands away with an exasperated sigh and took to adjusting the dress herself — it was the only way if she wanted to leave her solar in the near future. Melysa's face grew almost Lannister red as she stepped, or rather jumped, away from her mistress to get out of her hair.

"Have you ever got dressed by yourself, Melysa?" Esmae asked rather conversationally, putting on a gilded filigreed belt around her narrow waist. After quite a prolonged silence, she sought the handmaid's eyes in the mirror's reflection and saw her lower them in shame, "I see. What have you done to cross your family so?"

Melysa's doelike ember eyes widened in horror, "It is an honor to be in your service —"

"I appreciate the attempt at flattery. However, we both understand that a young lady such as yourself would much rather wander about the Keep making eyes at knights instead of serving the likes of me," Esmae took another look at herself in the mirror and finally turned around to face the mousy girl with a deceitfully sweet, patronizing smile, "Tell me I'm wrong," noticing her hesitation, Esmae added, "It is not an order."

"It _is_ the greatest honor to serve as your handmaid, your Highness," Melysa hurried to assure her, round eyes dancing around the room, "I wish it had been I to have come up with such a wonderful idea. Alas, it was my mother."

Esmae sighed, "Oh well, I am quite positive my mother had a hand at this as well."

Before Melysa could recover from her momentary stupor at the princess's sudden assumption, Esmae made to the door, her dress flowing in her wake. She knew that behind it there stood a stout, nameless guard, so very discreetly assigned by her mother. Cersei was having quite the fit of paranoia after the sudden, yet, as everybody made sure to concede, expected death of the beloved Hand.

Before walking out the door, however, Esmae turned to the new handmaid with a twinkle in her emerald eyes that made her resemblance to the Queen truly uncanny.

"Perhaps we can show our mothers what a truly keen idea it was to bring us together, lady Melysa. Meanwhile, you'd do well to learn more about the elaborate workings of a corset," with that she opened the door and walked out, paying no mind to the guard. Esmae had a lot of things to ponder, and the newly appointed handmaid was now at the very top of her long list. She was a pretty little thing with long, wavy chestnut hair and the strikingly innocent, if not lost, look in her eyes, so favored by men. Except, unlike many courtly ladies, it seemed that Melysa didn't need to put on the façade of virtuousness — it came as naturally to her as her utter uselessness as a handmaid.

Esmae didn't hate Joffrey. He was her younger brother after all, and she had long before his birth, laying a hand on her mother's swollen stomach, promised to stay by his side and protect the future King of the realm at any cost. Of course, she was but a three-year-old then, driven by infantile idealism and sweet ignorance as well as inability to see into the future, where the little bundle inside her mother grew up to be a complete lunatic. Still, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, however hard she tried, and try she truly did: when he killed the cat father had given her for her ninth nameday, when he almost shot one of her handmaid's in the head whilst trying out a new crossbow (the arrow ended up in her shoulder instead, and the girl almost bled out to death), or whenever he would make a particularly distasteful comment about her. "_Princesses are said to have golden cunts," _he had once declared at supper, while their father was feasting on something other than food in the confines of his rooms,_ "And we've got two in the family! Myrcella can be a spare if yours ends up being as cold and prickly as yourself, sister._" Esmae remembered the look on her mother's face at these words — she could see her eyes going blank, left brow raised as she fixed them upon the goblet of wine clutched in her hand. The only sign of anger was a slight twitch of the mouth that Cersei masterfully concealed by taking a sip of her personal calming draught.

It was the same face she had right now after her husband had broken the unexpected news — they were riding to the North. But while with Joffrey Cersei concealed her true emotions out of unconditional love, the only thing stopping her from speaking her mind with Robert was the fear of angering her lawful husband — however incompetent he was, Robert Baratheon was still the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and even her father's gold wouldn't save her from the rage of the man who had mercilessly killed Rhaegar Targaryen with a war hammer.

"The North, my love?" Cersei asked as she set down the goblet, her fingers still playing with the stem.

"Why would we go to this Gods' forsaken land, father?" Joffrey asked in his usual whiny manner, "they are all illiterate barbarians, no better than the wildlings —"

"Hush, boy," Robert said firmly, his face even redder from the strain of the responsibilities that had fallen on his shoulders in the wake of Jon Arryn's death, "Northerners are ten times the men these Southern shits can ever dream of becoming. We could do with more such men here in the capital. Good men, honorable men, men I can _trust_. Not all those sissies running 'round in their fancy shining armors, the wee peckers, who think themselves knights," the man huffed, "Like your own uncle Renly, the little wimp," Robert shook his head and laughed, "He reckons I'll make him my new Hand. D'you know what I told him?" The question was directed at Esmae.

"What did you tell him, father?" she asked, feigning interest in the incredibly fascinating narrative.

"That I need no help in fucking up this Kingdom, 'been doing fine on my own!" Robert guffawed under Cersei's seething glare.

"Robert, surely Tommen and Mycella could do without your foul language," she hissed, venom dripping from every word.

The two youngest children were sat close to their mother, usually silent during such conversations. Any other time, however, Tommen would talk non-stop about the absurd stories he had read in the books given to him by uncle Tyrion, which usually ended up with Tommen crying because of something Joffrey said. Of course, the blame was laid on none other than Tyrion himself, for he seemed to be the root of each and every problem in their family.

"The Kingdom is in need of a new Hand," Robert said solemnly, no trace of humor in his voice, "and I have already made my decision. We're riding to Winterfell and I am going to ask Ned Stark to be the Hand of the King."

"A Stark?" Cersei almost spat out the name, "You are ready to ride to the North and yet you dismiss my father without a second thought?"

Esmae was familiar with the current look on her mother's face as well and knew that if the discussion progressed in a similar manner, there would be hell to pay. Cersei was dangerously calm, her voice bordering on a growl that threatened to grow into a raging roar of a lioness.

"Or have you forgotten what my father has done for you? For our family? If it weren't for him, you would never have won that war — "

"If it weren't for Ned Stark I would have been dead right now!" Robert bellowed and slammed his large fist against the table, making everyone, except for Cersei, who did not even blink, jump up. The Queen understood that it was a battle she would inevitably lose — it always was when it came to the Starks. And she gave up fighting it many years ago.

"We're riding North in a fortnight," Robert said at last, a steely finality to his words, "Ned is family, as was Jon, and I trust this man with my own life. He helped me win the bloody Iron Throne and he will damn well help me keep it."

"And if he refuses?" Cersei asked, her voice mocking, face a picture of arrogance, "Northmen are stubborn folk, have you thought that he might not want to abandon his lands and ride off to the South?"

"He will not refuse."

And somehow Esmae knew it to be true.


	3. Squires and Gardening

**A/N:** _Heeey guys! Super sorry for the delay — I was finishing up my thesis and...well, now you're looking at a proud Bachelor of Arts! Yay! Yeah, maybe not necessarily _proud_ because I couldn't be happier that this horrible torture is over, but still, I made it out alive. And now I have a crazy amount of free time to laze aroud and update regularly (fingers crossed)!_

_About the main paring for the story...Have to confess guys, I _have_ thought about Jaime/OC, but it just doesn't sit right with me, you know? Because I love his character too much to not give him that redemption arch, which I think is quite impossible with him getting it on with his niece lol _

_I have some ideas about where this is gonna go and I'm already excited about all the stuff I'm yet to write. I hope you guys will like it! _

_Again, thanks so much for your comments, they are truly appreciated! Alright, I'm gonna shut up now. Here's the chapter!_

* * *

Esmae was born a summer child. With soft chestnut hair that shone a bright ember under the blazing southern sun and luminous eyes green as the vernal leaves, she was the very embodiment of warmth and prosperity. It was therefore quite ironic that the Princess hated the southern heat dearly and often wished she lived someplace norther, where it didn't smell like sweat, melting shit and despair — a quite odious cacophony of smells that welcomed anyone who entered the capitol.

Esmae's dress was a weighty confection of burgundy velvet with tagged sleeves and an intricate belt chased with an elaborate floral design. A gown of great beauty indeed, it was, however, quite unsuitable for wandering about the Red Keep in the middle of the day — her skirts were fast covered in dirt and there were already pearls of sweat shining on her forehead. Despite it all, Esmae was full of resolve to reach the stables and would have nothing stand in the way of that.

The first thing she felt was the smell — the unmistakable odor that could only come from horses and the scorching heat that together made for a positively great environment indeed. It was when the initial shock had finally passed that all other senses returned to the Princess and she saw a young squire fussing about one of the beasts.

"Hello, Fenwick."The boy almost dropped the saddle that he had been trying to adjust on a beautiful, stout stallion — Esmae appeared out of nowhere with a mysterious smirk on her face. She looked terribly out of place, standing in the middle of the stables in her rich burgundy dress and golden jewels, her hair arranged in a neat and elaborate southorn updo."No," the boy declared as soon as he saw the Princess, his eyes wide and pleading. Esmae quirked her eyebrow, and the poor squire's face instantly paled, "My Princess," Fenwick spluttered, remembering himself.

"I am in dire need of your services."

Fenwick Swann was a green boy of five and ten, who had been sent to squire for Ser Jaime Lannister some three years ago. He was the youngest of four sons and least perspective as well, according to his Lord father, who would rather see his son sent away than harbor him in Stonehelm for longer than necessary. Having no great skill with a sword and no desire to become a knight, Fenwick didn't particularly stand out amongst the many squires of her uncle, and was quite content with it — he liked blending in with the background. This talent proved to be his greatest asset and the very thing that, ironically, caught the Princess's attention. The first time Esmae noticed him was during the tourney held for Joffrey's fourteenth nameday — she was fascinated by the way the little squire admired her uncle. She didn't attach any import to it then, for Jaime Lannister — the Golden Lion — was undoubtedly a sight to behold. However, with time Esmae couldn't help but see Fenwick everywhere she looked, and while she watched him with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, the squire's attention was glued to her uncle. And the look in the boy's eyes was no longer admiring but rather longing — Esmae's knew that look all too well, for she herself was guilty of nursing a mild infatuation with Ser Jaime Lannister when she was younger. It was the look her uncle Renly often gave his squire Loras, and uncle Tyrion to every woman he interacted with.

Esmae thought that love was beautiful, especially so in its tragedy; sweeter when prohibited and painfully bitter when unrequited. And while she truly felt for the little squire, Esmae also understood that love was a handy tool to use and wouldn't shy away from doing so for her personal gain.

For Esmae didn't believe in honorable loyalty or in the power of fear. She trusted in debts, money and the power of the Seven, who were the only ones able to save those foolish enough to have crossed her. She did not have whores to command and little birds eating out of her hand. No, the princess had people who owed her, and that was worth far more than the gift of protection or the tremble of fear. Everyone could be turned against anyone for the right price, be that their life or something more valuable — Esmae had quite a knack for determining that with enviable ease.

She wasn't malicious, contrary to what some might believe. Esmae Baratheon wished harm on no one, which was, arguably, one of the few character traits that set the girl apart from her mother. However, as reluctant as she was to hurt people, she wouldn't shy away from it, righteous in her belief that sometimes it was, unfortunately, the only possible way to achieve the desirable end.

And in this case, it was information.

"What do you want me to find out?" the squire whispered.

"Anything," her ominous reply did little to calm Fenwick's nerves. Esmae took out a small pouch from her skirts and handed it to him, "Here, this should be enough. Do you remember how she looks?"

"How can I not, I see her every night in my nightmares," he murmured, reluctantly stuffing the pouch in one of his pockets.

Esmae laughed, "Well, she took a strange liking to you, Fenwick."

"Must be all the gold I bring in. Who knew that a brothel could be a royal charity? _Princess Esmae Baratheon — patron of the fallen women_," he declared poetically, "People will sing ballads about you, your Highness."

"I should hope so."

Esmae felt a little bad for using Fenwick like that, but only a little, for it was quite a beneficial barter, if anything else — she paid him to go to the brothel to spend some quality time with a particular whore — Sabina — thus sparing the poor squire any buggery gossip. The experience, however, proved to be quite traumatizing for Fenwick's innocent soul, and every expedition to the whore house was akin to torture to him. Esmae understood that it was a feeble alliance, for one couldn't very well put their trust into a Myrish whore and therefore chose to trust in the girl's will to live instead. Petyr Bailish would kill Sabina if he found out she was a spy. Esmae Baratheon would make her wish she were dead. But in the meantime, she would give her enough coin to keep her content. The little arrangement proved to be rather fruitful, for men tended to talk freely when they were satisfied and were quick to boast about their accomplishments in order to appear more virile, thus presenting a great source of information.

The sounds of galloping broke their little bubble of secrecy, and Fenwick jumped away from the Princess as if burned by fire. Esmae stifled a chuckle and looked up to see a beautiful alabaster stallion stopping in the middle of the yard, mounted by a Kingsguard in the golden armor that was shining as brightly as the knight's hair. Esmae wasn't the only one looking — Fenwick was quite mesmerized by the scene as well, and the Princess had to kick him with an elbow to break the poor squire out of his reverie.

"I think it's your cue, Fenwick," she whispered to him, reminding the squire of his duties, as Ser Jaime dismounted the stallion. The boy all but stumbled his way to the golden knight and took the reins of the horse in an embarrassingly awkward manner to lead the animal back to the stables.

"What did you do to my squire?" Jaime asked, obviously bemused by what had transpired.

"Nothing _you_ haven't, I'm sure."

"Well, it seems you are much better acquainted with my squires than myself. What's this one called?" he asked as though it was a normal thing to wonder about. But then again, thought Esmae, her uncle did have quite a number of squires, and Fenwick was so small and inconspicuous she couldn't really fault Jaime for forgetting his name. "Fenwick Swann," she offered with a hint of a coy smile.

"Ah, a Swann. Didn't know I had that one."

"How many do you have, exactly?"

"How many bastards does your father have?" Jaime countered with a disgustingly smug smirk.

"I'm afraid not even the King himself knows the answer to that question."

Jaime laughed, "Come, little niece, let me escort you to the Holdfast."

Esmae quirked an eyebrow, "Holdfast? Why uncle, mayhap I wish to have a stroll in the gardens. Or did mother order you to find me and drag me back?"

Jaime Lannister was indeed a noble and fearless knight, who never wavered in the face of danger. However, if there was a weapon sharper than any sword, it was the piercing emerald eyes of his twin, which Esmae had so unfortunately inherited from her mother. Neither Jaime's impenetrable golden armor nor the elaborate facade of nonchalance could save him from the probing look Esmae was giving him.

Jaime sighed, "Your mother is only worried. And where, pray tell, is your guard?"

"Ser Oakheart?" Esmae looked around in utter disinterest, "Sulking somewhere around the corner, I assume."

"You shouldn't be walking around the Keep without an escort, Esmae."

She gasped almost theatrically, "Why, is it dangerous?" Jaime leveled her with a rather unimpressed stare, "Well then, good thing you are here with me now, uncle. I feel safer already."

Sending Ser Jaime a smile that was way too mocking for the knight's taste, the Princess headed towards the Holdfast, her uncle following closely.

"I didn't know you had such close friendships with squires," he said after some time.

"There are many things you do not know about me, uncle Jaime," Esmae felt impossibly hot in the burgundy velvet dress she had chosen to wear, and mentally cursed the damned weather, wishing she was somewhere closer to the Wall instead. _That would be quite an experience_, she thought, _Perhaps I should do just that when we settle in Winterfell_, "In truth, I wanted the boy to pass on a note to Lord Renly."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he was missing from his solar when I came to pay him a visit," Esmae explained airily. It wasn't a complete lie, for she had actually intended to have words with her uncle. Of course, Jaime didn't quite believe that. Esmae hadn't expected him to, for though not as sharp as her uncle Tyrion, the reluctant Kingsguard was a Lannister nonetheless, and that alone came with a certain degree of cunning and witty, "There was a matter of great import I wished to discuss with him."

"Did he intend to borrow one of your garments?"

Esmae laughed harder than it was proper, "Rather an occasion that would call for it. You must've heard of the great masquerade they hold in Highgarden every harvest moon."

"Indeed I have. I take it you want to attend it with Lord Renly?"

"If the Gods are willing," Esmae replied in a ridiculously pious manner, "I'm sure the Tyrell's would be more than pleased to have us there. I hear Lady Margaery is quite the beauty, mayhap Renly will take a liking to her."

"While you're trying your hand at matchmaking, you might look for a suitable lady for the Crown Prince. Your mother tells me he's rather eager to find a bride"

"Oh no, I do not wish to have any part in ruining a poor girl's life. Whoever his bride ends up being, it is for the Gods to decide."

"It is the future King you're talking about, Esmae," Jaime warned her rather half-heartedly.

The Princess halted on the steps, halfway to the Holdfast, and looked at her uncle, not a trace of mirth on her face that was slightly flushed from the climbing.

"Trust me, uncle," she said slowly, a dark veil clouding over her emerald eyes, "I do remember."

* * *

"I hear you're planning on planting some seeds in the rose garden, dear niece?" a sudden voice next to her wondered, and Esmae suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Sometimes it irritated her to no end how fast news traveled within the walls of the Red Keep. Other times she was quite glad for it, especially when it was in her favor.

Esmae stood on the balcony facing the training yard, quite enjoying the solitude and the fascinating spectacle below: she wasn't sure what Joffrey had inherited from their father, but it was neither the looks nor the skill with a sword or any other weapon for that matter.

"It would've been appealing," she conceded, "Had there not been so many weeds to rid of. As it happens, I have little time to spare on gardening."

Tyrion laughed and extended a hand with a skin of wine in it, "Want some?"

Esmae accepted it with eagerness and took a swig the very moment Ser Blount kicked Joffrey to the ground. "We could turn it into a drinking game," she suggested, "Drink every time the Crown Prince falls flat on his arse."

"I'm afraid we'll drain the wine cellar," Tyrion cackled and took a sip from the skin, "Gods, he must have a nasty blister down there."

"It's a wonder Mother permitted this. I half expected her to have a fit the first time he took a sword in his hands," Esmae recalled distantly.

Tyrion appeared to be deep in thought before he said, "Why _did_ she permit it?"

"Father," she sighed, "said no son of his is to be a ninny sticking to his mamma's skirts and pissing himself in the face of danger. Quite an apt description of our little Joff, wouldn't you say, uncle?"

Tyrion snorted, "Indeed. What a good sister you are."

"I learned from the best," Esmae replied with a genuine smile that she only seemed to have around Tyrion, Tommen and Myrcella, "Have you seen mother around?"

"She was terrifying handmaidens and making arrangements for the journey, last I heard. Methinks your Lady Mother is not very eager to explore the untamed North."

"Oh, that is certainly —"

"Your Highness?"

Esmae turned to see her new handmaiden standing timidly in the archway, "Lady Melysa," she greeted in a mild surprise. Despite her lack of experience, Melysa proved to be a rather nice companion — she never talked too much and was respectful of the Princess' personal life, never hovering around to cater to her every whim. She had no agenda, _yet_, Esmae always added, for the air at court was a poison that would inevitably find its way into the veins of most honorable men, either killing them or turning them into the very people they had despised so.

"Lord Tyrion," the girl curtseyed, her cheeks flush from embarrassment, which Tyrion's wandering eyes did little to subdue.

"Lady Melysa," he nodded curtly, a gleeful smile playing on his lips.

"Is everything alright?" Esmae asked, her brows furrowed at the sudden interruption.

It appeared Esmae had been correct — Melysa was indeed a flower from the Reach, however, not a rose, as she had initially thought, but instead a beaming Sunflower of House Cuy. This revelation was an accident, really — Esmae feared Melysa would have never said a word had the Princess not noticed the beautiful sunflowers embroidered on the sleeves of her dress. The story of her shy handmaiden couldn't but pique Esmae's curiosity and she was set on learning more of the girl's backstory with the help of her loyal subjects.

"A Fenwick Swann is asking for your audience in the — in the gardens, your Highness" Melysa mumbled, eyes cast down.

"Very well," Esmae sighed and leaned down to plant a kiss on her uncle's cheek, "I'm afraid you'll have to enjoy the spectacle alone, dear uncle. Do inform me lest I miss something of particular interest."

"You have my word. Well met, Lady Melysa."

Melysa's face grew even redder. She performed a rather awkward curtsey and ran after the Princess, who was quickly walking down the corridor towards the gardens.

"Where did he approach you? Did anyone see you talking to him?"

The sudden avalanche of questions startled Melysa, and it took some time before she managed to compose herself, "I-In the kitchens, your Highness. I was arranging for your supper to be brought to your Highness's rooms as you have requested, and he was right there in the hall, w-waiting."

_Good thinking, Swann._

"Gods, calm down, Melysa," Esmae sighed in mild irritation, taking notice of how pale the girl suddenly became, "You did well."

Thankfully, the gardens were deserted, for the sun was starting to set down behind the Maegor's Holdfast and there was a pleasant chill in the air that was most welcomed by Esmae, who near died of heat in her weighty confection. Rushing down the aisles of rose bushes, the Princess finally saw a rather small figure — way too small for someone who aspired to become a knight — standing in one of the alcoves, looking around in nervous, almost paranoid, anticipation. When Fenwick's bouncy blue eyes caught sight of Esmae and the young handmaiden trailing behind, he motioned for them to walk faster.

"By the Gods, Fenwick, what is the matter?" Esmae hissed as soon as they were safely hidden in the shadows of the alcove.

"My Princess," Fenwick said, breathing heavily as if he had just run there all the way from the brothel.

_Did he really?…_

"Tell me," she urged. Fenwick's eyes flickered to the miniature brunette standing beside the Princess, "She's fine. What did you learn, Swann?"

"There was a squire — Ser Egen's squire, Alric…he…The girl — _Sabina_ — said that he'd boasted about being knighted and that she should be honored to…to lie with him. He said the Lord would recognize his skill at long last, that he was promised…"

"When was it?"

"A moon's turn ago I believe, your Highness."

Esmae scrunched her forehead in concentration, "Lord Arryn was still alive."

"Yes, but…"

"But?"

"The squire was knighted five days ago," Fenwick said and then leaned in to whisper the next words lest they be caught by the wind or a pair of ears, "by Petyr Baelish."

"Baelish?" Esmae repeated in utter disbelief, "Can he do that — knight people?"

"Well, he _is_ a Lord," Fenwick pointed out and then added, remembering who he was addressing, "Y-Your Highness."

This revelation did little to satisfy Esmae's curiosity and seemed to only make her hungrier for the truth.

"It doesn't make any sense," she almost whined in annoyance, having hoped to get all the answers at once, "What motive could he have? What could he possibly gain from it? Lord Arryn brought him to court, made him Master of Coin…"

"It seems to me, your Highness, that men like Petyr Baelish care little about gratitude, if…if I daresay," Fenwick offered, seeking to ease the Princess's anxiousness, "Sabina said the boy still remains in King's Landing and in Lord Baelish's service."

"We need to find out more," Esmae concluded with resolve.

Melysa looked impossibly small, standing between the two of them and trying and failing to follow the conversation, round eyes bouncing back and forth between the Princess and the squire.

"You mean _I_ need to find out more?" Esmae stared at him, unblinking, "Which I'd be honored to do, of course, your Highness."

"I trust you, Fenwick," she said solemnly, "You've done a lot for me, and your service shall be rewarded."

"A Lannister always pays his debts, huh?"

Something flashed in her emerald eyes, and Fenwick couldn't quite determine whether it was annoyance or regret, "I'm not a Lannister, but I do honor loyalty. We are to live for Winterfell on the morrow and shall be away for two moons. Keep your eyes open and ears sharp, Fenwick. And don't forget to stop by the brothel, lest Sabina's bed grows cold," she smiled coyly at the way the boy's cheeks reddened, "Come, Lady Melysa. We have some warm cloaks to pack."

* * *

**A/N:** _I love Fenwick so much, you've no idea. We have to protect him at all costs. _


	4. Claws and Antlers

**A/N:** _Oh my God, what? I'm updating!? No way. Okay, I'm so sorry to be a little late BUT this chapter is the longest one yet. So long, in fact, that at first I wanted to split it, but decided against it because...well, you'll see. _

_Wanted to thank you guys for all the favorites and follows and comments! It is so amazing, truly, thank you so so sooo much for your interest and support, it really keeps me going! _

* * *

Esmae hadn't done much traveling in her life. Mostly because her mother, a gentle soul Queen Cersei, preferred not to leave King's Landing or the confines of the Red Keep, for that matter, and Esmae had to always stay by her mother's side. Joffrey, however, had journeyed with their father quite often, as was expected of the Crown Prince, but even that didn't make the process easier for her little brother, who looked deliciously miserable riding alongside his father ahead of their royal party.

Esmae and Cersei, as well as her two youngest children and handmaidens, traveled in a wheelhouse with as much comfort as could be expected from such long a journey. There was little to entertain oneself with but Esmae often noticed Joffrey looking at the wheelhouse with longing in his beady green eyes and she silently harbored hope that his absolute incompetence as a rider would lead to a horrible accident, leaving the whole kingdom in grief for the magnanimous Crown Prince.

Such sinful and treasonous deliberations helped Esmae pass the time when she was not dozing off, reading or listening to Tommen gush about the legends he had read about the Age of Heroes. She would never admit to it out loud, but he was her favorite out of the three siblings. She loved Myrcella too, and how could she not when the little princess was the most empathetic and gentle thing; however, she was also an innocent and docile child, who fell under the absolute control of their Lady Mother.

Cersei was not normally a doting mother; protective — yes, but never explicitly caring. It was her very protectiveness that oftentimes felt horribly suffocating, and out of all the children, poor Myrcella had it the worst. Cersei never let the girl out of her sight, wary even of the septas, and one could always find the child at her mother's skirts, following her wherever she went.

No, Tommen was Esmae's child in all the ways but labour, for while Cersei raised the Crown Prince and coddled Myrcella, Esmae, ever the big sister, played with little Tommen — the often forgotten Baratheon princeling. He was the sweetest child with a mop of sandy hair and blue eyes, his chubby cheeks making him look even younger than he was at ten, a fact Tommen always made a point to state.

He fell asleep practically mid-sentence, head resting on Esmae's plush skirts. The silence after a rather prolonged time of Tommen's exuberant blabbering seemed almost defeating but quite peaceful as well, and Esmae found herself mindlessly running her fingers through Tommen's silky locks while staring at the bleak scenery through the window of the wheelhouse. And it was after some time of that uninterrupted idyll that Cersei finally spoke, "You'd look good with a babe of your own," she noted with a warm smile, watching the way Esmae coddled Tommen.

Any other person wouldn't have thought much of these words, but Esmae wasn't just anyone — she was a Princess, and Cersei wasn't just any mother, but Queen, which made the little remark heavy with implication, "Mother?" Esmae asked, cuing the woman to elaborate.

Cersei stole a look at Myrcella, who, like her brother, had long fallen asleep, head comfortably resting on her mother's shoulder.

"Your father was quite set on the idea of your betrothal to Lord Stark's heir," Cersei said with that ever-present shadow of a smirk on her full lips.

"Was?"

"After some careful consideration, the King and I have come to decide that it would be unwise to send off our firstborn daughter to the North," Cersei stroked Myrcella's soft golden locks almost absentmindedly, which made Esmae flush with anger — why was she so nonchalant about this?

"And father had no qualms about it?" she asked in a calm manner, rather skeptical of Robert's rationality.

"Of course he did. Which is why Joffrey is soon to be betrothed to the elder Stark girl instead. Better have wolves in the South than send one of our own to freeze in the snows," It was quite apparent that Cersei wasn't particularly happy about the match. Had she had it her way, there would be no betrothal at all, but there was only so much power to be had over a King and a husband. It was a wonder Cersei had managed to persuade him to change his mind in the first place. Something Esmae was very grateful for, although she'd never let it show. Being grateful for something meant being given a favor, and she didn't want to be indebted to Cersei Lannister.

"What wonderful news" Esmae found herself uttering, her now shaky hands still gently stroking Tommen's hair.

She did feel bad for the Stark girl, but such was the way of the world for the women living in it. They were just bargaining tools, some more valuable than others, sold for armies, used as seals for feeble treaties and as broodmares to ensure the potency of a bloodline. In this world, all one could do was stand idly by, thanking the Gods it was not them that their wrath was directed upon.

* * *

The deeper into the North they ventured, the more restless Cersei became. It was one of the things Esmae observed on this trip for the lack of anything better to busy herself with. Her mother was decidedly more snappy than usual and talked very little, instead staring into the window with a wistful look in her green eyes, and Esmae wondered what it was like being in Cersei Lannister's head. She soon came to the conclusion that she would be strangled with an array of treasonous thoughts on the many ways she could end her husband's life.

The weather grew colder, the air crisper, which made the journey all the more trying. After another week on the road, the royal party made a stop at a shabby inn, which was absolutely below their Excellency, as some of her kin have so keenly pointed out. Esmae was inclined to agree with them but did so silently, still quite happy to have a warm room to stay in instead of a flimsy tent in the dead of woods.

"Have you ever been so far up North, Lady Melysa?" she wondered airily, resting in a hot bath while Melysa helped to rinse her hair.

Esmae would've thought her handmaiden had snorted, were the girl not so cripplingly shy, "Oh no, Your Grace, never. I have barely even left the Sunhouse."

The princess nodded in understanding, "I haven't done much traveling in my years either," she sighed and leaned the back of her head against the edge of the bath, "Father only took Joffrey to accompany him on his journeys. As the future King, he ought to know the lands he is to rule over, see."

Esmae loved her father. He was a glorified warrior, who had seized the Iron Throne with the sheer force of his unforgiving hammer. And her grandfather's gold, but Robert didn't like to be reminded of that. However, conquering the Seven Kingdoms and actually ruling them were two quite different things — a fact that, sadly, escaped Robert Baratheon, as did his responsibilities as King.

Her father was not meant for a courtly life but for a battlefield, and Esmae felt that for all his boisterous behavior and threats, he was still but a pawn, albeit quite a weighty one, in the game of spiders, lions and overly ambitious puppeteers, who infested the capitol much like rats in its canals. Robert Baratheon did not know of this game, but Esmae was aware of it all too well and, unbeknownst to her father, had set out to play it in his stead. What she did not anticipate was that her very mother would become her most challenging opponent.

"Prince Joffrey will be a great King one day," Melysa offered dutifully.

"Undoubtedly," Esmae muttered and closed her eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet of her chamber. In the weeks of endless traveling the princess sorely missed seclusion — she hated crowded places that rung with a buzz of conversations, hated people that always sought to ask her opinion on things that were of such little importance, she sometimes felt the urge to tell them so in the rudest manner possible.

Esmae loved to be alone and only ever realized how lonely she was when standing next to her family, smiling and waving, being the golden Princess they had dubbed her. The loneliness she felt in those moments clutched her heart in a steely embrace, and Esmae could feel it beating slowly against its hold.

The royal retinue resumed their journey the next morning. It had begun with Joffrey complaining to her about the stiff bed that had given him a terrible headache, which did well to raise Esmae's spirits and set the light mood for the rest of the day. The ride to Winterfell promised to be relatively short and indeed, not more than three days later, there was a blurry silhouette of the Northern stronghold visible in the distance.

The North looked quite depressing, Esmae thought, with its grays and blues and the unrelenting feeling of dread hanging in the freezing air. "_Winter is coming_" — such were the words of House Stark, and she had never really understood them before. Until now.

"Look, look, Esmae! We are almost there!" Tommen announced with an endearing childish excitement that earned the little prince a reproachful look from his mother.

"Do not raise your voice like that, Tommen. You are not a wildling."

However, not even Cersei's low spirits could lessen Tommen's rather infectious enthusiasm. He fancied himself one of the heroes of the books he always had his head buried in, venturing on a perilous adventure to the wild North. Esmae loved her little brother for that and hoped that he wouldn't lose the miraculous ability to dream and see farther than where ambition and greed went. She would do anything to ensure it.

The wheelhouse came to a halt when they rode through the North Gate and into Winterfell, greeted by crowds of northern smallfolk. Esmae watched them through the slit in the window, curious, despite Cersei telling her to sit still and close the '_damned_' thing. She didn't see much, only her father dismounting and making way to a family lined up to greet the royal party — the Starks.

"Esmae, watch your brother and sister," Cersei asked, or rather commanded when the guards opened the doors of the wheelhouse for the rest of the royal family to make an appearance.

"Come on, Tommen," Esmae took the sleepy child by the hand and left the wheelhouse after Myrcella and her mother.

Cersei joined her husband to greet the Starks with a rather sour look on her face, leaving Esmae behind with her younger siblings and uncle Jaime.

The Starks were a big lot, with five true children and an infamous bastard that the noble Eddard Stark had brought home after the Great Rebellion. Esmae scanned the family with her screwed eyes that lingered on the girl with fiery locks and blue eyes, and hers, she noticed, were glued to the Crown Prince. It didn't take Esmae long to realize who she was — the dreamy smiles and longing looks she sent Joffrey's way were enough confirmation.

How utterly odd it was sometimes to see people admiring her brother that she knew to be a soulless monster. Esmae drew her eyes away from the poor girl and suddenly felt them draw to the boy standing next to Lord Stark — his heir, she suspected. _The man I could've married_, she thought looking at Robb Stark.

He had a warrior's stance, although he hadn't once been on a field of battle. Esmae suspected that he longed to, inspired by the tales of great knights and lords, the likes of his father, who fought valiantly for honor and justice. Yes, Robb Stark looked every bit the future Lord, however, there was indeed some Northern wildness to him, a certain ruggedness that made him different from the lordlings of the South.

Esmae only managed to look away when Tommen tugged on her hand, "I'm hungry," he murmured, gazing up at her with those big, blue eyes that melted her heart.

"Just a little longer, love," she whispered back, feeling quite worn our herself. The journey had had its toll on all of them, and she could only imagine how hard it had been for the children.

After the pleasantries had been exchanged, Robert promptly left to visit the crypts to pay respects, accompanied by Lord Stark, who appeared apologetic for his friend's behavior. He must have felt guilty, Esmae mused, that after so many years, Robert Baratheon still preferred the company of his late sister Lyanna — the King's greatest love, to his wife's.

Robert's sudden departure and absolute disregard for manners left Cersei almost shaking with pant up anger as she gave Catelyn Stark a deceitfully warm smile and walked back to her children.

"Where is our brother?" she hissed at Jaime, who seemed to be amused by how enraged his twin was, a little smirk playing on his lips, "Go and find the little beast."

* * *

Her chamber was bigger than Esmae had anticipated and much warmer, too, which was a very pleasant surprise. It was due to the hot springs upon which Winterfell had been built, as she later learned from one of the handmaidens. After settling in, Esmae had given in to the slumber at last and woke up a few hours later, quite refreshed, in the soft and snug featherbed. For a moment her brain, still fuzzy from the sleep, thought that she was back in her own bedroom at home, and it was only when she saw the furs on the wide bed that the princess remembered her surroundings. She was in Winterfell. In the North.

_Magnificent_, Esmae grumbled internally.

It seemed she woke up right in time for the feast, for only minutes later Melysa came knocking on her door with a dress in hand, ready to prepare the princess for the evening. Her handmaiden never ceased to surprised Esmae, for she soon came to learn that the girl was quite good at hairdos, to the envy of all the ladies at court. It pleased Esmae immensely.

She was now wearing a beautiful gown of deep purple, hair braided in an intricate updo that was supported by an array of golden pins, embellished with delicate golden roses. Esmae looked a vision and was sure to draw the eyes of every brazen Northman at the feast, much to her chagrin.

The feast had long been underway by the time Esmae arrived at the Great Hall, the sounds of music, people trying to talk over it and the bustle of dancing around her making the princess a little uneasy. But she had learned to ignore the creeping sense discomfort and put on a smile that would enchant the gaping audience.

Esmae was a splash of color in the sea of grey, white and blue colors the northern women seemed to favor so much and so it didn't take her uncle long to spot the princess and come to her rescue.

"Your Lady Mother has begun to worry you've run off with a crazed Northman," Jaime jested with a smile, taking Esmae by the elbow to lead her to the dais where her family and the Starks were seated.

"The thought did cross my mind, but I felt dreadfully famished and decided to wait until after the feast," she replied without losing a beat.

Jaime chuckled, "It is very sensible of you, my Princess."

The dancing crowd stepped back to give way to the Princess and her escort, murmurs filling the hall as people followed her with their prying eyes. Esmae did her best to pay no heed, looking strictly ahead until she was safely delivered to her mother.

"Have a nice evening, my Princess," Jaime winked and left Esmae to Cersei's seething wrath, returning to his duties. Although from what Esmae could see, her father needed no saving, if only from himself and the wenches that surrounded him. She inadvertently wrinkled her nose in distaste at the mortifying scene and quickly looked away.

"Lady Stark," Esmae greeted with a courteous smile, "The feast is spectacular."

"You are too kind, Your Grace —"

"You are late," Cersei interrupted rather abruptly, leveling her daughter with a displeased look, "It is uncomely for a Princess to behave in such a boorish manner, Esmae. You ought to apologize to your hosts for your utter lack of tact," the goblet of wine in her mother's hand was enough explanation to Esmae. She grew flush with embarrassment nonetheless — she was a grown maid of seven and ten, and her mother was berating her like a little foolish girl.

Catelyn Stark seemed equally uneasy in this situation, quite unsure of how to act, "Please accept my apologies, Lady Stark. I meant no disrespect by my tardiness and shall never disgrace you so again," Esmae said dutifully, hoping that her irritation stayed well hidden behind the polite words.

The woman gave her a warm, genuine smile, "It is quite alright You Grace, I take no offense. Think nothing of it and do enjoy the feast."

Catelyn Tully was a beautiful woman at five and thirty, and Esmae could only imagine how comely she had been many years back. There was a different kind of beauty to her, so unlike her mother's: while Cersei's features were sharp and striking, which spoke volumes of her cunning personality, Catelyn looked every bit the doting mother — soft, caring, considerate. Everything Cersei wasn't. She had a warm southorn look to her that hadn't been harshened by the wildness of the North, and although Catelyn wore her auburn hair in a simple braid and was clad in Stark colors, she was every bit a Tully, with her bright blue eyes that shone defiantly — _Family, duty, honor_.

"Thank you, Lady Stark," with a curt nod to Catelyn and a wary look to her mother, Esmae descended the dais and took her rightful place next to her siblings, as far away from Joffrey as possible. Tommen was busy eating and discussing something with one of the Stark children — Bran, Esmae thought it was, and judging by her brother's excitement, they spoke of the great knights and legendary heroes. Myrcella was playing mush with her food, staring blankly at the plate — she looked bored out of her mind, and Esmae felt rather the same way. She reached for her goblet with a deep sigh a took a generous sip of wine.

Esmae looked over the tables and saw Sansa who was giggling with her friend Jeyne and stealing glances at Joffrey. Gods, the girl was so daft, and no one could really blame her for it — how could one not dote on a southron prince, heir to the throne, when all one had learned came from the ballads and silly stories of brave knights and silly maidens, who were as useless as they were dense?

Sipping on the wine, Esmae switched her attention to another table where she spotted Robb Stark. The heir of Winterfell was drinking ale and laughing heartily at something Theon Greyjoy had said. _Theon Greyjoy_ — the son of the traitorous Balon. Her mother had a lot to say about the Stark ward and little of that was nice. "_As if a bastard was not shameful enough, they had decided to take in a traitor's spawn._"

As though feeling her looking, Theon raised his eyes and gave her a wink. Were Esmae a blushing maiden from Myrcella's ballads, she would've averted her eyes. But Esmae wasn't and so she didn't, raising a questioning brow instead. Robb Stark soon noticed that his friend's attention was elsewhere and followed Theon's eyes, startled to see him staring at the Princess. Scandalized, Robb punched Theon on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper something to him. Theon's laughter rung through the hall and over the loud music, and he quickly resumed his conversation with Robb. But before that, he winked at Esmae one last time.

_Shameless squid_, she thought and took another generous sip from her goblet.

Robb Stark soon left the feast to take his little beast of a sister back to her chamber, and not long after that uncle Jaime did the same with Myrcella and Tommen, for they both could barely keep their eyes open. Soon after, Theon Greyjoy retired with one of the serving wenches he had managed to snatch away from the greedy King, who had his hands full with a bunch of them. Esmae then stole a look at her mother, who appeared bored but for the tight grip she had on the goblet, which showed that she was half ready to throw it into her husband's thick head.

Esmae felt suddenly overwhelmed by everything around her, squished between the drunken lords and her mother's silent anger, and carefully slipped out of the Great Hall while her parents were too busy giving in to their vices. However, Esmae hadn't managed to escape _everyone's_ attention and was quickly joined by one of the Kingsguard, who wanted to see her safely to her chamber.

"I wish to have a walk before I retire. If that is alright with you, of course," she said with a poisonous sweetness to her voice that was a little hoarse from disuse and cold air.

Having rid of the pestering guard, Esmae decided to have a little walk and wandered into the sacred Godswood. She remembered that the Northerners kept different Gods — Gods of the Forest_, _who resided in these woods — which was one of the many reasons Southerners were wary of them, considering their pagan believes unacceptable.

Esmae walked towards the weirwood tree and stood there looking at the face carved into it — Esmae hadn't seen a lot of heart trees, for most of them had been cut down hundreds of years ago, and found herself transfixed by the sight of it. She had never been particularly religious and could count her visits to the Sept of Baelor on one hand — it never felt sacred to her nor intimate like it should've. It always seemed cold and prying, with soundless septons lingering in the shadows. Here, however, Esmae could only hear the howling of the wind and the rustling of the bloody leaves. It felt soothing, peaceful, and she found herself letting out a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

The distinct sound of steps alerted Esmae to an intruder, and she instantly whipped around to see a snow-white wolf pup standing behind her. His eyes were as red as the fallen leaves scattered around the heart tree and were examining her with a surprising intent. The pup then sat down and tilted his head, giving out a tiny whimper that had Esmae's heart thaw.

"Hello there, little beast," she whispered and took a cautious step forward, "you gave me quite the fright. I almost didn't hear you," she cooed and crouched down to stroke his head.

Esmae reached out a hand to do so but froze when she heard a loud rustling; and then a voice called, "Ghost! Gh-"

Jon Snow all but ran into the Godswood and halted when he saw the princess crouched next to the wolf, his eyes round with a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

"Your Grace," his voice was unexpectedly gruff as he greeted her.

Esmae rose to her feet, recognizing the boy as the infamous bastard of Winterfell — his resemblance to Lord Stark was uncanny. And if there was a little of the northern wildness to Robb Stark, then his natural brother was a true son of the North with his raven-black curls and steely grey Stark eyes that were now looking at her in complete befuddlement and suspicion, brows furrowed.

"Lord Snow, I presume," Esmae greeted before Jon could make up a coherent enough sentence.

She could see that the sudden use of a title startled him, "I'm no lord, Your Grace," he lowered his eyes as if ashamed. Or angry, Esmae couldn't tell, "What are you doing here?"

She turned back to the heart tree and gazed wistfully at the face that seemed to be mocking her.

"I've never been to a Godswood before," she said and looked at Jon, "It is beautiful."He gave a curt nod, remaining in his spot with a bemused look on his face."You keep the Old Gods, yes?""Aye, I do."It took Esmae a moment to put the pieces together, "Oh, I shall take my leave then. I do not want to intrude —""There's no need, Your Grace. I did not come here to pray."

It was only then that Jon had finally recovered from the aftershock and came closer, joining Esmae at the heart tree.

"Oh, well then that makes perfect sense. I should think even the Gods need their rest at such an _ungodly_ hour."She hadn't expected Jon to laugh at her words so heartily and it seemed that the wolf pup was as startled by the sound as she was — he gave another soul-wrecking wail as if making his presence known, craving more attention. Jon chuckled and crouched down to run his fingers through the pup's soft white fur."This one is yours then?" Esmae asked with a warm, genuine smile. She might have been wary of people but animals she adored. They never plotted behind your back, never lied to you and hid their claws behind false pretenses. With animals, you knew exactly whom to be afraid of."Yes. His name's Ghost," Jon replied, sounding much like a proud parent."Quite fitting. I've always wanted to have a pet when I was little," she said with a pinch of regret in her voice.

"Why didn't you?"

"Mother never much liked animals," Esmae replied with a sigh and then her lips formed into a smile, "She did, however, allow Tommen to get a fawn. He simply adored it," as memories came rushing back, a frown settled on Esmae's face, "right until it became Joffrey's jerkin."

Jon looked up at her, his brow knitted in confusion, "What?"

"He skinned the poor animal and made himself a jerkin," Esmae replied with a tight smile, "Haven't you heard? Our Crown Prince is not only a grand warrior but also an apt artisan."

She shouldn't have told him that. Her mother was fiercely adamant on such things staying in the walls of the Red Keep, and even her father knew nothing of his heir's cruel ways. But now that the words had left her mouth and were hanging in the air, Esmae felt a little lighter. It was a nice feeling — to tell the truth.

"Gods," Jon sighed, unsettled by the story.

"Mother never let us have another pet ever again.

"That is sick."

She nodded, "It is, isn't it."

There was a moment of silence, and Esmae couldn't help but feel that Jon wanted to say something only to stop himself before he even opened his mouth, "Why are you not at the feast?" he finally asked as he stood up. Esmae noticed that his face somewhat darkened, leaving not a trace of the former jovial smile.

She shrugged, "It was getting rather…randy, shall I say."

Jon nodded in understanding but Esmae had an inkling that he didn't really. She doubted a bastard was often allowed to be present at such feasts and today wasn't an exception — Catelyn Stark didn't want to parade the greatest shame of her family around the King and his Queen. She was a good and selfless mother after all, and none would welcome a bastard child into their home, let alone let them grow up alongside their true children. Esmae wondered why Lady Stark had agreed to it or rather why her husband had disrespected her so — it was not common for bastards to receive such treatment. If every seed Robert Baratheon had sowed grew up in the royal gardens, one would hardly be able to see throw the thickness of the weeds.

"These feasts are rather boresome, Lord Snow. I would've gladly stayed away had I any choice in the matter," Esmae made a feeble attempt to console Jon, marveling at the earnestness of her words. Perhaps it was because the boy before her was a stranger, perhaps because she wouldn't see him again in a sennight, but she felt like there was no point playing courtly games with him.

"Well, I don't either," Jon rasped in a harsh tone and looked at her again, eyes colder than the freezing northern air, "It is late, your Grace. Let me escort you to your chamber."

And she did, Ghost following closely behind.

* * *

Esmae never was quite good at embroidery, despite Septa Eglantine's continuous and rather persistent tutelage. She could certainly manage a simple flower or a semblance of the Seven Pointed star but it was precisely where her skills faced an insurmountable impasse.

Nevertheless, armed with a needle and a round frame that presented the princess with a clear canvas to sew upon, Esmae was trying to produce something resembling a stag.

"What is that supposed to be?" the younger of the Stark sisters asked, taking a peek.

Esmae noticed that the girl took every chance to abandon her sewing — Septa Mordane had admonished the little girl more times than she could count in the past our, but Arya took her words with a careless huff and was quick to return to her antics but minutes later.

Esmae sighed and gave her work a critical look, "I do not even know anymore. What does it look like?"

"It looks like a dung," Area replied with perfect seriousness.

"Arya!" Septa Mordane exclaimed.

Esmae, however, was amused by the girl's honesty. It was rather refreshing, "It does, doesn't it? It appears princesses aren't good at everything after all."

Arya chuckled and then looked at Sansa, who was watching the two of them with eyes so huge, one would've thought she had heard the princess say something utterly blasphemous.

"Hear that?" the younger Stark sister taunted, sticking out her tongue, and quickly ran off before Septa Mordane could punish her, leaving poor Sansa speechless and with a face as red as her hair.

"Arya!" The poor septa called after the little beast, but the girl was already gone.

"For what it's worth, I think sewing is a Gods' gift bestowed upon select few only, Lady Sansa," Esmae offered, ever the diplomat, and took a look at the beautiful winter rose Sansa had embroidered, "And you appear to be one of the blessed."

At that, the girl's bright blue Tully eyes glimmered like the waters of wide southorn rivers in the sun, "Thank you, Your Grace," she said with a bashful smile and quickly returned to her work, whispering something to another girl, Jeyne Poole — daughter of the steward and, as it appeared, her dearest companion. The girls shared a giggle, and Esmae couldn't help but smile at that; a smile that held a bit of sadness, though she'd never admit it.

Growing up, Esmae always dreamed of playing with the other children in the Keep, who seemed to be having so much fun in the gardens, playing in the fountains, running around the halls from their septas and sneaking out to swim in the sea near the Blackwater Bay. But her mother would never let her, and the one time Esmae dared to question Cersei and throw a fit, she received a slap on the face and never spoke of it again. She was friends with the ladies her mother told her to be friends with, laughed at the jokes she was expected to laugh at and left the walls of the Red Keep all but five times in her seventeen years.

Sansa Stark was a true lady, but however southern she wished to appear, there was the same wildness to her that there was to her siblings, a wildness Esmae came to admire in the days she had spent as their guest. Sansa's ringing laughter was earnest, her smiles were warm and generous, she still blushed when given a compliment and dreamed of bigger, greater things.

With a pang of regret, Esmae thought that the little girl was in for the grandest disappointment in her life. It would be truly heartbreaking to see Sansa's wildness tamed, her freedom taken, her innocence tainted. A true shame.

After most invigorating sewing lessons, Esmae found herself in the library, snuggled in the corner with a book she had read many a time before but that nevertheless made her laugh — the book of legends. Her father had gifted one to her on her seventh nameday when Esmae was not quite so cynical and pragmatic, and she remembered herself enamored by the story of Florian the Fool and the beautiful Jonquil. With time, however, the stories inspired less and less excitement in the princess and soon turned into the source of nothing but laughter. Esmae was quite content with that.

Flipping the page with a smile on her face, Esmae laughed at a particularly funny line and then suddenly stilled when she heard the squeak of the old wooden door and felt the flutter of cold air in the room.

"Something funny?"

Esmae instantly relaxed at Tyrion's voice. She heard the floors creak under his feet as he made his way to her little corner and drew a chair to join her with a read of his own.

"I was expecting you, uncle," Esmae drawled without tearing her eyes off the book, "mother is getting restless what with no one to yell at. I trust northern whores are keeping you safe?" At that, she lowered the book enough to look at Tyrion with a self-indulgent smirk.

"What can I say? I'm working restlessly to fill Northern coffers. Haven't you heard? _Winter is coming_," he mocked in the dreadful northern accent with an air of mystery, "This month shall be quite lucrative for them."

"But what a magnanimous soul you've got," Esmae sighed in admiration, "In truth, mother had been exceptionally unbearable as of late. I wonder why that is."

"North doesn't agree with her, it would seem," Tyrion mused airily.

"Does anything?"

And they lapsed into a silence that was both relaxing and nurturing. That was one of many reasons Esmae enjoyed Tyrion's company so much — he was the one she could have deep and meaningful talks with, the one who told her embarrassingly bawdy anecdotes with not a trace of shame and who didn't mind staying silent when her thoughts were too loud and her heart too heavy.

Whenever that happened, and it used to happen more often when she was younger, Esmae would venture into the library of the Red Keep, that was much easier to get lost in than the one at Winterfell, and would get lost in silly stories that made her forget about the grim reality.

It was only much later that she realized that she herself was a Princess and if no one had come to free her from the lion's claws in all those years, the stories were nothing but sweet lies. And what could be more dangerous than that?

* * *

Esmae stared wistfully at her reflection in the slightly tainted looking glass while Melysa was carefully braiding her long chestnut hair. She had been restless all night, sleep stubbornly avoiding her, and Esmae had fallen prey to a horde of unwelcome thoughts she had been trying hard to suppress. She thought of her mother and her dark moods, of her father with not a single care in the world, of Sansa Stark whose dreams were soon to crumble into dust and…of Jon Snow.

The latter had been an honest revelation, for she had not spared a single thought for him since their encounter in the Godswood. And suddenly, she remembered his brooding face with eyes of such dark grey they almost looked black. Eyes that were…sad. Eyes she recognized as her own.

"What do you think of Jon?" she found herself asking.

Melysa stopped her gentle ministrations for a second, looking at Esmae in the mirror's reflection, "Do you mean Jon Snow? The bastard?" she whispered the last word in dismay.

Esmae rolled her eyes, "Yes, Jon the bastard."

"W-what…what should I think of him, Your Grace?"

"Well, he's rather handsome, is he not?" Esmae enjoyed making Melysa uncomfortable with her bluntness.

A ringlet fell from the handmaiden's hands at the words, "But he's a bastard."

"For the love of the Seven," Esmae sighed in annoyance, "despite the horrors told of bastards, they are not horned and winged sprites. They are as all men, only most unlucky to have been born without a blessing of a wanly septon."

"But they are…vile, ungodly a-and ill-spirited…" Melysa spluttered, overcome by a wave of righteousness.

Esmae thought of her brother Joffrey, of his sneers, crudeness and the sense of entitlement that was sticking out of every hole in his body and decided that no bastard could be worse than the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

"_People_ are vile, ungodly and ill-spirited, Lady Melysa. Lordlings and the like just have more gold to keep the rest of the world comfortably blind to that."

Melysa didn't say anything and returned to her ministrations in silence. The girl had worked miracles, and soon Esmae finally left her rooms to break fast, her hair beautifully braided in a half-crown atop of her head, a few ringlets framing her face. She was pleasantly surprised by the northern weather that morning, for although the air was still crisp and the cold biting, the grey sky cleared at last, giving way to the blinding sun. It shone differently in the North, Esmae thought, almost brighter, as if making up for the lack of warmth.

Drown to the light, the princess found herself standing on the battlements and looking up at the clear, blue sky. Esmae finally felt at peace. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, cold air filling her lungs, a sensation that was both peculiar and pleasant. It was quite rare that she had a moment like this. To listen to the birds' chirping and to finally get a glimpse of the freedom she could've had if only she had a pair of wings instead of claws and antlers. But the bliss was quite short-lived, for not a minute later she heard the sound of loud and boisterous laughter, which caused Esmae to open her eyes and draw them to the yard below.

"Come on now, pick up your sword, my lady!" Robb Stark cried out, a dazzling, cocky smile on his face.

"Piss off, Stark," Jon grumbled, but Esmae could see that he was smiling too. Sword back in his hand, Jon lunged at his brother, and the two returned to their sparring, laughing and exchanging taunts as they fought each another. Esmae didn't know much about swordsmanship, but after watching Joffrey suffer through his useless training (which she, herself, enjoyed immensely), it was incredibly fascinating to see someone who could hold a sword in their hands for more than five minutes and actually know how to wield it.

After watching them for some time, Esmae decided that while both brothers were skillful soldiers, their fighting manner was as different as their looks. Jon was slightly shorter than Robb but he was also lither, which made his movements faster and more languid, resembling a Dornish dance. Robb Stark, despite having his mother's auburn locks and blue eyes, took after his father in all the rest — he had a built of a warrior, tall and broad-shouldered, and even from a distance, Esmae could tell that there was a firm, sculpted body hiding behind all the layers of clothing. For a second she wondered how it would look like, but was quickly broken out of her reverie by the sound of clashing steel.

"Ready to yield yet?" Jon challenged.

"Did you just say "yield"? I do accept, brother," Robb quipped with a wolfish grin, and they both resumed their sparring dance.

Robb Stark, she noticed, moved gracefully and with less haste, his every move calculated. He was strong, undoubtedly so, but while Jon Snow was fast and unrelenting, Robb was clever and cunning, and soon Esmae was completely enticed by his deliberate movements as he readily met his brother's every blow. She could tell that Jon was getting annoyed and tired, his attacks less thought out and more irate. He launched himself at Robb too quickly and lost his ground, sword flying out of his hands.

"Too fast, Snow," Robb taunted with a good-natured smile and reached out a hand to help him back to his feet. Jon met the remark with a huff but accepted the help nonetheless.

"Lord Robb is rather comely," Melysa offered in a small voice. Esmae had almost forgotten of her presence and was a little startled to hear the girl's voice.

As if hearing his name mentioned, the heir of Winterfell looked up at the battlements and met the princess's eyes. Esmae felt her skin tingling from the look he gave her, the way he not only looked but _saw _her, saw _through _her, and she felt she couldn't tear her eyes away.

Robb's eyes were blue like his sister's, if only a few shades lighter, reminding her of the ice glistening in the sunlight. His auburn curls were in utter disarray from the fighting, his face a little dirty, and yet when he smiled at her, Esmae thought she hadn't seen anything more beautiful in the world.

"He is."

* * *

**A/N:** _Okay so my mind is pretty much decided on the pairing...I know this chapter is confusing, what with Esmae thirsting after everyone. But can you really blame her? I mean, come on, they're all hotties. _

_Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do leave comments with your suggestions/theories etc, you have no idea how helpful and inspirational they are to a writer! _

_Oh and one more thing! I've got a _tumblr_ page where I'm going to post some "No Rest for the Wicked" stuff like edits, snippets, etc.__ so if you're interested, my username is **missdromeda **_

_Also, there is a trailer for this fic...which basically gives away the pairing but whatever, I'm super excited for you to see it. The link to it is in my bio if anyone wants to check it out. _

_Again, thank you for reading my fic! More to come soon..._


	5. Old Gods and the New

**A/N:** _Heeey I'm back with another chapter! Though, to be _completely_ honest, I'm not too happy with it...but I'll leave it for you to decide. Also, a bulk of dialogue in this chapter is taken from the tv show (season 1 episode 2, to be precise), just thought I'd mention it. _

_Okay now that we're done with the formalities, HOLY SHIT GUYS! Thank you so so so much for all the favorites and the follows, it's insane! I'm super pumped that you're liking this story so far! It really is amazing._

_Alrighty, let's get to it._

* * *

King Robert loved hunting.

If he was half as skilled at ruling over the Seven Kingdoms as he was at chasing down boars, the realm would be prospering. It was, however, wishful thinking, and for that reason, Robert left ruling to the people who were just as incompetent at it, but cunning enough to appear knowledgeable, and did what he knew best — hunt. Which was exactly what Robert was off doing the day before they were to depart for the capitol.

All the men were away on the royal hunt, which left the women behind and to their own devices. Esmae didn't really mind that — she was never one for hunting or sparring anyway, much to her father's displeasure. It wasn't a secret that Robert had hoped for a son and was quite disappointed to hear, upon his arrival to his wife's chamber, that she had given birth to a beautiful girl, black of hair.

As a child, Esmae always felt like she lacked something and could never understand what it was, however hard she tried to be the exemplary daughter. It was only when Joffrey was old enough to accompany their father on a hunt, that Esmae finally understood that all her attempts to bound with Robert had been doomed for failure. For try as she might, she would never be able to grow a cock between her legs. It always fascinated her how this one thing could completely change the way people perceive you. She couldn't help but feel the exasperating unfairness of it.

It was almost ironic that Joffrey had turned out to be as much of a ninny, even more so if Esmae were being honest, and quite soon Robert abandoned any hope to connect with his two older children, never mind poor Myrcella and Tommen. Esmae supposed that the desperate wish to be loved and recognized by their father was the only one that she and Joffrey had in common. They did, however, have decidedly different methods of vying for his attention: Esmae strove to be ever the considerate daughter while Joffrey…gutted cats.

Esmae doubted that such thoughts ever crossed the mind of Sansa Stark, who was perfectly content with her role as a woman and, although she still didn't know it, (but Esmae was sure already suspected) as the future princess. To be fair, Esmae had no qualms about her role as a mere woman and a princess either. She just loathed the fact that there was no choice for her to be anything but. Anything _more_.

This is why she felt quite struck by Sansa's question, "What is it like, being a princess, Your Grace?" the girl wondered during one of their sewing lessons. Esmae noted that little Arya hadn't managed to escape this one, and was sat in a faraway corner of the room with a grim look on her face. The needle in her hand might as well have been a sword, what with the ferocious anger she almost attacked the fabric. No wonder her stitches were always crooked.

"It is a feeling like no other, Lady Sansa. I was blessed to have the love of the people of Westeros and the opportunity to better their lives," Esmae droned, suddenly feeling drained from the continuous pretenses she had to put on during this trip.

"It is a true blessing from the Gods," Sansa agreed enthusiastically. Esmae saw Arya roll her eyes and mutter something. It made her smile a little.

"I suppose you will experience it yourself soon enough."

The room fell silent at the declaration. Esmae knew it was unwise of her to speak the words so soon, for although everyone suspected, there hadn't been a formal announcement yet. But the princess couldn't say she particularly cared about it.

"No worries, Lady Sansa," Esmae assured the anxious girl with a smile as warm as the southorn sun, a set of simples appearing on her cheeks. They always made her look more innocent, which was a grand tool to use in her favor, "I am certain you will make a wonderful princess, and someday…even Queen," she noticed fear flash through Sansa's blue eyes as the girl listened to Esmae's words intently, "The people of Westeros will bow to you as they will bow to the future Kings and princes you will give birth to."

"It would be a true honor, Your Grace," Sansa declared after a small pause, determination in her small voice.

Esmae patted her hand affectionately and noticed Arya watching them with something akin to suspicion in her grey eyes that were so much like her brother's.

* * *

Esmae wrapped warm furs tighter around her slight frame as she left the Keep with other ladies to have a short walk around the grounds. She had felt nauseatingly tired of the grey walls and dullness of the castle. Despite the hate she had for King's Landing, Esmae couldn't deny that she did, in fact, miss its warmth and the sea of colors that rippled beautifully in the blazing sun. She missed the busy sounds of the Flea Bottom and the smell of the sea, mixed with that of Dornish spices. And she also missed the familiar faces, one of which she was looking at now and was quite surprised to see.

Jaime was at the stables, saying something to one of his squires, who appeared to be absolutely mortified by whatever order her uncle had given. Brows furrowed in confusion, Esmae left the company of her entourage and strode up to him looking exceptionally determined, "Uncle Jaime," she called. He left the poor squire alone and turned his attention to the princess. For a second Esmae thought she saw a flicker of panic in his green eyes, that were a shade darker than her mothers, but it was quickly gone, replaced by the familiar smirk.

"Princess Esmae," he drawled, "How are you faring this morning?"

"Positively wonderful. What about you?" There was a hint of challenge in her question that Jaime had surely caught on.

"I'm enjoying the weather," he looked up at the grey sky, squinting, and then back at Esmae, "Delightful, is it not?"

"It sure is. The perfect weather for a hunt, I'd say. Speaking of, shouldn't you be with my father? Saving him from the boars out for his head?"

Jaime chuckled, "Your father begged me to accompany him but someone had to stay with the Queen and her little cubs. I trust that the King's is safe with Sers Blount and Trant, My Princess."

Esmae huffed. The two men were witless buffoons but she supposed they could be tasked with that. They did, after all, have a mental capacity of a wild animal.

"North becomes you, niece," Jaime suddenly pointed out.

Esmae narrowed her eyes at him, "Does it now?"

"Pale skin, red cheeks; why, you're quite the winter rose," he teased.

"I'll leave roses to the Tyrells. I rather miss the stanch of King's Landing", she answered, a pinch of longing to her voice.

"Tell that to your brother, " Esmae frowned.

"Who, Tommen?"

Her uncle nodded, "It seems he made good friends with the younger Stark boy; Ben, was it?" Jaime tried to remember but quickly dismissed the meaningless feat, "Which reminds me, Tommen was looking for you. Apparently, the boy had shown him some boresome book and he wished to show it to_ you_."

Esmae smiled at that. She was happy that Tommen could finally play with someone his age, especially when that someone shared her brother's love for books and legends. It pained her to see him alone, stuck in the library back home, and although Esmae always tried to be ever the perfect listener, she understood that it wasn't the same.

"Alright then," she sighed, "I shall go see him right away."

"And I will be right here, keeping an eye out for any brazen Northman who dares encroach on your honor."

Esmae rolled her eyes, "You do that."

She returned to the ladies and dismissed them before going back in the direction of the Keep. The path led the princess through the tiltyard where she couldn't but spot Jon. The bastard of Winterfell was attacking a training dummy with admirable dedication, and Esmae thought that it wasn't the first time she found him in such a state.

Esmae deliberated whether she should talk to him again. She had meant to ever since uncle Tyrion mentioned Jon taking the black when talking about his long-awaited excursion to the Great Wall. Esmae realized that there was no changing his mind — who was she but a stranger to him? But still, it irked her how he was ready to throw his life away when there was a chance, a slight one but a chance nonetheless, to mold it into something better.

But she was a princess after all, and as much as she despised the title and cared very little for propriety, it was still strange, if a little scandalous, for a woman of her standing to converse with a bastard in public. And yet she found herself taking a step forward, and then another until she was close enough to hear Jon's ferocious grunts. But, apparently, not close enough to be noticed.

"Good morning, Lord Snow."

He immediately stopped his assault, breath heavy with exhaustion as he turned to her with an ever-present frown. There was a flash of puzzlement in Jon's eyes but it was quickly replaced by a dutiful look Esmae often saw the Kingsguard wear.

"Your Grace," he nodded.

"You're not hunting."

"No, I am not, Your Grace," Esmae could feel a slight tension in his voice,

There was a small pause, "Well, I guess my father's ego is better for it," she sighed and looked at the dummy that was almost destroyed, "Say, Lord Snow, whose face do you imagine while attacking the poor thing?"

"Your Grace — "

"Your Lord father's?"

Esmae had watched him enough for the past fortnight to know quite a bit about Jon Snow. For all his broodiness and tendency to keep to himself, the bastard of Winterfell was nothing short of an open book when it came to hiding his emotions. Esmae never missed the way he looked at his brother Robb, the way he talked to his father — with a certain distance as if scared of acting too familiar with the man. But the one thing that had struck her the most was the way Jon Snow looked at Catelyn Stark, or rather how he returned her blazing glare.

"Or is it Lady Stark's face that angers you so?"

Jaw clenched and lips pursed lest he said something he regretted, Jon grabbed on the handle of the sword so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

"Was there something you needed, Your Grace?"

Esmae smiled at the strain in his voice. It was the twisted part of her that always seemed to enjoy seeing people give in to the truth. They were puzzles the princess took pleasure in solving, collecting information piece by piece, until she could put them all together.

"There's nothing wrong about being angry, Lord Snow. Or upset, or jealous," Esmae saw his mouth open slightly either in shock or in an attempt to interrupt her, "Just make sure you don't let these feelings be the force that drives you. Somewhere far and dark. Someplace like…the Wall."

"What would you know about it, _Your Grace_?" the title rolled off his tongue like a drop of seething poison. Esmae smiled at that. She didn't think Jon Snow capable of such raw emotion.

"A great many things," she replied ominously, not at all fazed by his animosity, "Women and bastards share the same lot, Lord Snow. Both are doomed for a life they didn't choose from the very day they are born. So we might just have quite a lot in common."

"Doomed," Jon shook his head with a mirthless laugh, "I'm afraid we have very different ideas of what that means, My Princess."

"Perhaps," Esmae conceded after a long moment of silent deliberation, "Nonetheless — "

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by a sudden scream coming from the direction of the Keep. Jon's head instantly whipped in alarm and he clutched the sword firmly in his hand, "Stay here, Your Grace," he commanded, no trace of the previous anger in his gruff voice. He was the warrior now, the knight, and Esmae thought that mayhap that was what he had always wanted. She found it strange that Lord Stark was so adamant on keeping the bastard in Winterfell for his wife to silently loathe when he could've easily sent Jon to squire for some lowly knight. Surely it would've been a fait much better than the prospect of freezing to death at the Wall.

"What is going on?" Esmae demanded from one of the women who had just run into the yard in absolute horror.

"It's the little lord," she cried out for everyone to hear, "He's dead!"

Esmae saw Jon's face go white before he stormed out of the tiltyard.

* * *

Brandon Stark was not dead.

He was, however, severely injured, from what little Esmae had heard the previous evening. It was a true blessing that the boy had even survived the fall from the tower, something that her mother had pointed out somewhat begrudgingly if Esmae was to scrutinize her reaction.

Everyone was shocked by the news — apparently, the Stark boy was quite the skilled climber, who even in the worst weather managed to come down from the heights unscathed, and it was strange if not a little suspicious that he had suddenly lost his balance. But in the chaos that had ensued after the tragic fall no one dared think of its circumstances but only the consequences, for Bran's life were hanging by a fine thread.

Nonetheless, the horrible incident wasn't enough reason to delay the royal party's return to the capitol, and as much as King Robert wished to support his loyal friend at such a time, even he wasn't so careless as to leave his seat empty for a day longer, and so the family and their entourage were set to journey back the next morning.

It was why Robert didn't join them to break fast, busy with settling his business with Eddard Stark before they left for King's Landing. Esmae didn't much mind her father's absence at the table. She had woken up with a nagging headache that had been surely brought upon by the shrieking screams and cries of the Northerners at the _"death"_ of their precious lordling, and was glad to be spared from Robert's loud voice and her parents' incessant bickering. It also allowed Jaime to join them instead, and Esmae was quite happy to share a meal with her beloved uncle.

Esmae was sat on her mother's left with a sour look on her face and silently ate her breakfast trying not to scrunch her nose with every bite — food turned to ashes in her mouth, but she made herself eat at least something, for there would be quite a long way before they made a stop at an inn.

The atmosphere at the table was particularly tense that morning, and Esmae couldn't, much to her great irritation, understand what exactly was different about her mother's foul mood. The one thing, however, that was _doubtless_ terribly off was the dejected expression on Tommen's round and usually joyful face. Her brother had taken the news of Bran's fall quite hard — the boy was his one true friend after all, and it pained Esmae horribly to see him so.

The niggling silence at the table was interrupted by the sound of another one of her uncle's cheery voice, "Bread! And two of those little fish. Oh, and a mug of dark beer to wash it all down," Tyrion told the servants as he sauntered into the Great Hall in disgustingly high spirits, "And bacon, burnt black!" he lifted Tommen from his seat with an overdramatic grunt to make some room for himself on the bench next to Jaime. Esmae was glad to see Tommen laugh at that.

"Little brother," Jaime greeted, looking ever the Young Lion with his hooded green eyes and a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Beloved siblings", Tyrion sent a particularly cheerful smile to Cersei, who was looking at him with a distasteful scowl. Esmae offered her uncle a tired smile, which Tyrion returned with a wink and started to pile food onto his plate.

"Is Bran going to die?" Myrcella blurted.

Tyrion bit into a piece of bacon before answering, "Apparently not."

Cersei, previously resting in her chair with an air of lazy indignation, suddenly tensed, "What do you mean?"

"The Maester says the boy may live," Tyrion sipped on his tea with airy casualness, a challenge in his green eyes as he met the same pair of his sister's and then spared a glance at his brother. Esmae froze with a spoonful of porridge hanging near her mouth and couldn't help but notice Jaime's eyes flicker to Cersei. They shared one those strange twin looks that Esmae always hated as if they could read each other's minds and hold the longest and most meaningful conversations just with that single exchange.

"It's no mercy letting a child linger in such pain," Cersei said righteously.

Esmae decided that she quite agreed with her mother. The world they lived in was cruel and unforgiving and made no exceptions for anyone, much less to cripples. Even should the Stark boy somehow recover, his life would be a woeful existence, at best.

"Only the Gods know for certain," Tyrion shrugged, busy with the food on his plate, "All the rest of us can do is pray".

Cersei lowered her eyes in silent contemplation, wrapping her shawl tighter around her frame. Tyrion seemed to ignore his sister's strange fascination with the boy as he reached for a piece of bread, "Charms of the North seem entirely lost on you," he pointed out to her, mouth stuffed with bacon.

"I still can't believe that you're going." Cersei sighed.

Tyrion shared a mischievous smile with Tommen, who instantly brightened up at the mention of their uncle's great adventure to the Wall. Esmae knew that Tommen, too, dreamed of one day doing the same, an aspiration their mother wasn't particularly supportive of.

"It seems ridiculous, even for you," she huffed. Esmae wasn't sure if there had ever been a time when Cersei didn't absolutely loathe everything that Tyrion did.

"Where's your sense of wonder?" he exclaimed, "The greatest structure ever built! The intrepid men of the Night's Watch, _the wintry abode of the white walkers_," Tyrion lowered his voice mysteriously with blood-curdling theatrics that made Tommen burst with laughter.

Cersei, however, looked anything but pleased, which couldn't be said about her twin brother, who seemed entirely amused by the scene, "Tell me you're not thinking of taking the Black?" he wondered with a raised brow.

Tyrion snorted, "And go celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock!" Cersei rolled her eyes at the distasteful remark while Jaime merely smiled at his little brother's vulgar antics, "No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world".

At this point, Tommen was positively wheezing with laughter and so was Esmae while Myrcella blushed profusely but did allow herself a small, timid smile.

"Children don't need to hear your filth," Cersei hissed dismissively, "Come," she stood up and called for Tommen and Myrcella to follow her. Esmae, however, didn't budge and successfully ignored her mother's expectant stare.

"I haven't finished yet, Mother. I'll join you later," she smiled at Cersei and took a demonstrative bite of bacon, fighting the urge to spit it out. Cersei was obviously displeased but said nothing as she sauntered away with her two younger children, leaving an air of indignation in her wake.

"She won't forget that," Tyrion pointed out to Esmae, who appeared utterly unbothered by the prospect.

"The Citadel must have a lengthy record of all the grudges held by Cersei Lannister. What's another one?"

Tyrion guffawed at that and even Jaime spared a laugh, although he usually berated Esmae for joking about her mother in such an _"unkind" _manner.

"I do need to leave soon, though. I ought to express my condolences to Lady Stark," she relented.

"Ah, yes. I have been to the boy's sickroom earlier this morning," Tyrion took a sip of beer from his cup under Jaime's strangely intent gaze, "Lady Stark is absolutely devastated, hasn't left the boy's bedside all day, and I doubt she ever will, with that fall…" he trailed with a grimace.

"But there's still a chance he will survive, isn't there? The Maester —"

"Even if the boy lives, he'd be a cripple, a grotesque," Jaime cut in, "Give me a good, clean death any day."

"Speaking for the grotesques, I'd have to disagree," Tyrion put a piece of bread into his mouth, "Death is so final, whereas life…well, life is full of possibilities," he continued his ministrations with the food while Esmae and Jaime stayed silent, keeping to their thoughts.

"Don't you find it strange?" Esmae spoke up after some time and found Jaime's eye instantly flicker to her, "the fall?"

"What's strange about it?" He argued with a raised brow, "the boy thought he could climb the tower, slipped and fell. Obviously, he was wrong."

"I was told he is a skillful climber," Tyrion chimed in.

"Tommen said he had never slipped before," Esmae confirmed, a frown on her face deepening.

"I hope the boy does wake. I'd be very interested what he has to say," Tyrion took a generous sip from his cup, oblivious to the dark look Jaime was giving him at that moment. But Esmae didn't miss it, nor the way the muscles played in his jaw, that hard he was clenching it.

"There are times you two make me wonder whose side you're on," Jaime remarked in jest, but something in his tone suggested a sort of passive aggression that left little room for jokes.

"Dear brother, you wound me," Tyrion didn't sound at all offended, "You know how much I love my family."

Esmae said nothing, her fingers circling the rim of the cup as she stared at the dark liquid in it with distant contemplation.

* * *

Seeing Catelyn Stark crouched at her son's deathbed with his frail hand clutched tightly in hers, left Esmae in a strange mood. She had known death, what it does and the lingering trails it leaves in people's lives. She saw empty bodies, dull eyes, white faces, heard the whispers of Silent Sisters and the cries of grief-stricken widows.

She had never seen a person dying before. It was a wholly different experience to see someone on the verge of crossing the thin veil standing between life and death, and it made Esmae think of her own mortality. That at any time she could be mere steps away from it too, without even realizing it, and the next thing she would've known would've been the cold embrace of the Stranger.

The courtyard was filled with the royal envoy running around in preparation for the trip, and the whole Keep was swarmed with people bustling around, which made Esmae's head spin. She longed to be in peace and could think of one place only — the godswood, which was exactly where she went after wrapping a thick woolen cloak around her shoulders. Esmae thought that the weather had grown colder since they had arrived at Winterfell and shuddered at the thought that in a matter of years or even months the winter would envelop all of Westeros, and the Long Night would be upon them at last.

On her way to the godswood she walked past uncle Jaime, who was conversing with one of the guards. As if feeling her eyes on him, the Kingsguard looked up and quirked his brow in question: _"And where are _you_ supposed to be going?"_ he was saying, to which Esmae pointedly drew her eyes away and went on. The conversation they had shared at breakfast that morning had left her uneasy, and she was yet to understand why.

Head swirling with thoughts about her uncle, Esmae stepped into the godswood and felt the noises die instantly as if extinguished by an invisible force. But as she made her way to the heart tree like she had done many times before when she was alone, she found that she actually wasn't — there was a man knelt at the tree, elbows resting against a rock as he prayed to the Gods. Esmae knew who it was the instant she laid her eyes on the man's auburn curls and found herself strangely transfixed by the scene before her, finding it sacred, intimate, as if she was dropping eaves on a secret conversation. She felt a pang of guilt for intruding on such a private moment but could do little to look away, almost drawn to the sight. Esmae made a tentative step forward, and suddenly the peace was broken with a single snap of a branch beneath her feet. Robb's eyes instantly flashed open and he whipped his head around in alarm, looking a little disoriented before he noticed Esmae and stilled. Slowly, with a frown on his face, Robb stood up, "Your Grace," he greeted, his voice laced with confusion.

"Forgive me, my lord. I ought not to have…snuck up on you like that."

"I'd like to think I'm not so easily frightened, Your Grace," Robb assured her with a hint of a smile on his weary face. Looking at him now, Esmae noticed the red around his blue eyes and the distinct shadows under them — he looked so very young, so vulnerable, and for a second Esmae didn't know what to say or what to do. She wasn't used to seeing people cry, to seeing their weakness so plane and vivid, so undeniable. True emotions were strangers to her. Sincerity was a divine concept."I am sorry, my lord," Esmae apologized yet again, absolutely at a loss, "I shall leave you to your prayers —""No, you should stay," Robb suddenly cut in and, judging by the startled expression on his face, he was as surprised by his words as she was.

Esmae didn't know what to think. It was rather uncommon, for she always had a witty remark or a courteous thing to say in store. And so they stood like that, unmoving and unspeaking, until Robb cleared his throat, "Forgive me, Your Grace, I'm—""Don't insult me with apologies, my lord. I care not for them, especially when they are not due."Robb closed his mouth, his cerulean eyes sparkling with puzzlement."How does your brother fare?" Esmae asked in a clear, sound voice, willing herself to stop trembling like a daft courtly maiden. Even if she was exactly that."All's well," Robb answered with a slight nod as if trying to reassure himself, "He is still...still sleeping. But Maester Luwin says there is a fair chance he will come to.""That is great news," Esmae offered him a smile and instantly hated herself for how fake it was. Robb Stark had no need of her royal courtesies and reassurance, "And how fare you?""Me?" he seemed genuinely surprised by the question."Yes. You look like you're in need of a good night's sleep, my lord. No offense," she then added.

Robb chuckled, a smile spreading across his gaunt face, which made it look endearingly boyish, "None taken. I suppose I do look rather…"

"Tired?" Esmae supplied.

"Yes," Robb laughed, a sound she found not displeasing at all, "_That_."

The princess walked to the heart tree like she had done so many times before for the past fortnight and simply stared at the carved face. She could understand why the Northmen were so devoted to their Gods, for every time she walked into the sacred place, Esmae instantly got a sudden feeling of clarity and safety.

She took a deep breath and spoke again, "When I was born, the Maesters told my mother that come morning, the Stranger would take me away. And so she spent all night praying to the Mother asking her, _begging her_ to let me live. Cersei Lannister on her knees," a mirthless chuckle left Esmae's lips at the absurd thought, "I lived through that night, and the next, and the one that came after. Sixteen name days later, and the Stranger is yet to take me away," she turned to look at Robb, who was listening to her intently, brows furrowed in concentration, "I'd like to think that Gods do listen. And that yours and the prayers of your dear Mother will be heard and answered, my lord."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Robb slightly inclined his head in gratitude and seemed hesitant for a minute before speaking again, "Can I…can ask you something, Your Grace?"

"Of course."

"Why do you come here? I mean to say that…Gods," Robb sighed in irritation at his own inability to form a sentence that wouldn't sound quite as accusatory, "People talk and…well, they wonder why the princess visits the godswood so often."

Esmae didn't think long before giving a simple reply, accompanied by a shrug, "I like it here. It's quite. "

"But you keep to the Seven?"

"I don't believe in Gods, my lord," her emerald eyes looked almost dark as they glimmered with something akin to distaste, "But I suppose that makes me a hypocrite, for, despite my doubts, I end up praying to them in the hour of need."

"Are you confessing treason against the Faith, Your Grace?" Robb asked gleefully.

"It appears so," Esmae quirked her brow in a playful manner, "What are you going to do about it, my lord?

"Well," Robb deliberated carefully as he stepped closer, "I care not for the New Gods, so I guess that makes me a heretic, too."

Esmae hadn't noticed how fast the distance between them came to naught and felt her heart beating faster when she looked straight into Robb Stark's blue eyes. She never saw them so close, so bright and so welcoming, with little mischievous fires dancing in their pits.

"Lord of Winterfell," Esmae mused, "_a heretic_. How utterly scandalous. But I suppose the North will like you all the better for it."

Robb shook his head in a rather sheepish manner, "_My father_ is the Lord of Winterfell."

"Not anymore," Esmae pointed out, which made him wince.

"Gods," Robb threw his head back with a sigh.

"You don't want to be a Lord?"

"I don't want the responsibility that comes with the title."

"Ah," Esmae nodded knowingly, "Titles. That's what it all comes down to, doesn't it? Bearing them until you're buried under their weight."

Robb raised his brows at her in surprise, "You don't enjoy being a princess?"

Esmae wanted to tell him the truth. That no, she didn't and that she'd rather be no one at all. The words were dancing right on the tip of her tongue before they died, giving life to the embellished lies, a trickery, "Ask me that question another time," she answered with an enigmatic smile.

"Aren't you leaving right about…" there were distinct bustling sounds coming from the North Gate, "now?" Robb ventured with a mocking frown.

"I am sure our paths will cross again, Lord Stark. Will you keep the North safe for my father in the meantime?"

Robb smiled and inclined his head in a solemn confirmation, "I swear on my honor, Your Grace, by the Old Gods _and_ the New."

"Well, now you're a hypocrite too, Lord Stark."

* * *

**A/N: **_Well here it is, Robb and Esmae finally had a normal interaction. When will they see each other again, I wonder?_

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it's probably super annoying, but please do leave your comments to let me know what you guys think. You've no idea how much it helps in times of horrible writing block._

_Love you and see you soon!/span/em/p _


	6. A Little Tempest

**A/N: **_First of all, thank you thank you thaaank you for your kind comments, follows and favourites! Yes, I know that there are thousands of Baratheon OFC/Robb Stark stories and believe me, I've probably read all of them. So trust me when I say that this story is going to go very differently._

_Okay, this chapter is a monster, guys. It's 9288 words long and is the longest one yet. To be honest, at first I intended to split it, but then I was too excited for you to read all of it and decided against it. Have to say, it was a bitch to edit and I might've missed some misprints and mistakes and for that I am sorry. I hope it isn't the case though! __Also, there are some edits I've made for this chapter, you can check them out on my tumblr page! Renly is one of my favorite characters from the books and I didn't quite like the actor they chose for him in the show (although he IS a great actor). Personally, I've always imagined Sam Claflin and his adorable dimpled smile. __**Another warning:** this chapter is mostly following the books and a lot of dialogue is taken from there ("A Game of Thrones", Eddard VI and some from Sansa I). Anything you recognize does NOT belong to me, but to George R.R. Martin and the HBO. _

_Just to remind you, Esmae is 17, Renly is 20-ish. _

* * *

Esmae was breaking fast in the common room of the Inn they had settled in the night before. It was an impressive three-story construction of pale stone but even so could hardly accommodate the whole of the king's party, which had almost doubled in numbers. Esmae was enjoying bread with honey, while Tommen was reading his favorite book of legends and marveling at the great Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, who had not only fought giants but also slew dragon Urrax, "He tricked him with his shield! Can you imagine?"

Myrcella gave her little brother a gentle smile.

"This is one of my favorite stories," Lady Melysa said. She had joined them for breakfast as well and was sipping on her hot tea.

Tommen's eyes lit up, "Really? What are the others?"

Esmae smiled into her cup as she watched him. Tommen had developed a bit of a crush on Lady Melysa during their trip. It was quite endearing the way he always stole glances at her in the wheelhouse when he thought no one was looking and sought to impress her with the most ridiculous of tales.

"I love the one of Prince Aemon Targaryan and Queen Naerys," Melysa told them, a bit abashed by the sudden attention everyone was paying her.

"He is one of my favorites as well!" Tommen exclaimed. Esmae knew that her brother was obsessed with Targaryan history, a secret they did well to guard together.

"The way he defended her honor against Ser Migil? I wish the men in our times were as gallant," Melysa's eyes looked sad and her voice was laced with something akin to regret.

Esmae raised her brows in surprise, "Why, Lady Melysa, I didn't know you had such a romantic soul." Melysa's cheeks flushed and she didn't answer, taking a sip from her cup instead.

Esmae took another bite of the honeyed bread and frowned mid-chew when she heard shouting coming from without the inn that was quickly followed by a distinct sound of galloping. Curiosity piqued, she rose from the table and made her way to the window to see what was going on.

Three horsemen rode into the inn's yard: a white cloak, the Hound and a third knight that Esmae couldn't yet identify.

"What is it?" asked Tommen.

"I do not know," Esmae replied distractedly.

The royal party had multiplied due to the Starks and their main joining them, and with almost four hundred men riding with the king, they had to break down tents and pavilions outside of the inn to accommodate the rest of them. It seemed that they had to make space for a few more.

Unable to quell her curiosity, Esmae came out of the inn, led by the sounds of the commotion. She saw two knights kneeling before her lady mother, "The king is gone hunting but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns," she was saying.

"What is going on?" She asked one of Jaime's many squires, confused.

"The council sent riders from King's Landing to escort our party the rest of the way," the boy told her.

Surprised at the news, Esmae made her way through the crowd to get a better look at the new arrivals. One of the knights was wearing a suit of armor as white as the northern snow made of intricate enameled scales and a cloak of purest white. Esmae knew that it could only be one man — Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Tommen's glorified idol. The boy next to him, clad in armor with a steel plate of deep forest green was none other than her uncle Renly, who drew the attention of every maid in the vicinity, with his laughing green eyes, jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders and a cocky green.

The spectators stepped aside to let the princess pass. Esmae walked forward and approached Joffrey, who was standing next to the wheelhouse and watching the interaction.

"Good morn, brother."

Her greeting was met with a scowl that was uncannily reminiscent of their mother, "It's almost noon, sister."

"Yes, it _is_ quite early," she agreed airily, "But I suppose I'm just in time. Uncle Renly," Esmae said to the green knight, dismissing Joffrey without a second thought. The Lord of Storm's Land rose from the ground and regarded Esmae with a grin.

"Little fawn," he gave her a hug that she returned without hesitation.

"Ser Barristan," Esmae addressed the old man with a gracious nod, "We are glad to have you here."

"What about me?" Renly demanded in offense, "Do you really need this old man to protect you? "

Esmae smirked, "Better than a prancing jackanapes, I'd say."

Her words were met with general laughter led by Renly himself but it died down quick enough when there was a beastly growl. Esmae's head whipped at the sound and she spotted the red main of Sansa Stark before she saw her direwolf Lady, teeth bared as she rumbled a warning, standing between the girl and the Hound.

"Go to her," Esmae heard her mother say to Joffrey.

Her ponce of a brother walked leisurely, positively bathing in his glory as he finally sauntered up to the frightened girl. He said something to Sandor Clegane and then placed a hand of Sansa's delicate shoulder, his face a picture of worry, "What is it, sweet lady? Did he frighten you?" Joffrey pointed at the Hound, "Away with you, dog. Can't you see you're scaring by betrothed?"

Stone-faced and ever the loyal servant, the Hound bowed and walked away, leaving the two lovebirds alone.

"It was not him, my sweet prince…"

Esmae did not want to listen to the rest, or rather simply _couldn't_ without rolling her eyes at the sickening exchange of pleasantries. _Surely Lady Sansa couldn't be so daft_, Esmae thought as she drew her attention back to her uncle, "Come walk with me, Lord Renly. I wish to hear every gossip I have missed in my absence," she took the green knight by the arm and led him away.

Renly chuckled, "Oh, this will take the whole trip back to the capitol, little fawn."

* * *

Arya Stark was nowhere to be found. It had been four days since the girl disappeared along with her direwolf Nymeria, and Eddard Stark was restless. Cersei Lannister was restless, too, but for very different reasons — she wanted the girl punished for what she'd done to Joffrey, and the beast put to death.

Esmae could see that Lord Stark was trailing on the edge — he had been leading search parties for three days and looked awfully weary every time the princess saw him. It seemed he did everything to find Arya first, lest she was hunted down by the queen's men. But finding the girl was proving to be quite the feat even with Lannister, Stark and Darry men looking for her on both sides of the Trident.

The royal party had settled in the modest castle of Raymun Darry, who had begrudgingly supplied some of his men for the hunt. It was obvious that the man was hardly pleased with the situation — he was a known Targaryan supporter who lost three of his brothers on the Trident, and it clearly took a lot of patience for him to have their killer under the roof of his house, even if he did live under the king's peace.

It was late in the evening when Arya Stark was discovered at last. A crowd had gathered in the audience chamber where the king was slumped in Raymun Darry's high seat with Cersei by his side. Esmae knew that Robert found no joy in holding this ridiculous hearing, unlike her lady mother, who looked rigid and unforgiving. The Queen had her hands on Joffrey's shoulders and resembled a fierce lioness protecting her cub, hungry of revenge. Esmae stood on the other side of her father, looking around the room with a somber reflection.

One of the Stark men had led little Arya in the audience chamber, accompanied by two Lannister men. The girl was covered with mud, her lanky limbs clearly shaking, cheeks stained with tears. However, Esmae was surprised to see the look of unrelenting defiance in her steel grey eyes as Arya raised them to send a livid look at Joffrey. The princess nearly snorted when she noticed her brother clutch his injured arm protectively.

All the whispers died down when Eddard Stark burst into the room. Spotting his daughter right in its center, every eye upon her, he almost ran towards the little girl and took her in his arms. Arya sobbed and kept apologizing, and Esmae watched as Ned whispered something to her before moving his eyes to the King, no trace of the softness he held for his daughter in them.

"What is the meaning of this? Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?" he bellowed, "Why was she not brought to me at once?"

Cersei bristled, "How dare you speak to your king in that manner?"

"Quiet, woman," Robert snapped, "Sorry, Ned, I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need this business to get done quickly".

"Your girl and that butcher boy attacked my son," Cersei said, "That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off."

"That is not true!" Arya yelled but then her temper seemed to falter, "She just…bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah!"

"Joff told us what happened," the Queen persisted in a threateningly calm voice, "You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!"

"Yes, it is!" Joffrey said in that whiney manner of his, "They all attacked me, and she threw my sword in the river!"

"Liar!" Arya yelled.

"Shut up!" Joffrey yelled back.

"Enough!" The King roared, and Esmae almost jumped up at the loud sound, "Seven hells, what am I to make of this?"

"May I speak, father?" Esmae's gentle voice seemed to startle the crowd more than her father's bellow. Clearly reluctant to deal with it himself, Robert gestured for her to continue. And she did, under Cersei's watchful emerald eyes, "Perhaps we should let the girl speak her truth and then listen to Joffrey's story?"

The king thought on it for a few moments and nodded his agreement, "Yes, it seems reasonable enough. Now, child, you will tell me what happened," he told Arya, "Tell it all and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king."

And so the girl did, in great detail at that, painting a colorful picture of how she had disarmed Joffrey with great ease using nothing but a wooden stick and that she had, indeed, thrown his famed Lion's Tooth into the middle of the Trident. Esmae tried very hard to stifle her laughter. Lord Renly, however, made no effort to be discreet and began to laugh loudly.

Robert regarded him with annoyance, "Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes."

Renly tried to stifle his laughter, "Oh, you're too kind, my King. I believe I can find my own way," he bowed to Joffrey, "I do hope you will someday tell me the fascinating story of how you were bested by a nine-year-old midget," as the doors shit behind the retreating figure of the green knight, Esmae heard his fading laughter, "Lion's Tooth," he guffawed once again.

Joffrey was the next to share his story that was, unsurprisingly, absolutely different from the one told by Arya. By the end of it, the king looked infinitely confused and irritated, probably wishing he were anywhere but in that absurd situation.

Esmae let out a heavy sigh, wishing the same. Of course, she knew who exactly was telling the truth, but had an inkling that it didn't matter. Truth never mattered. Everyone always had their own.

"She tells me one thing, he tells me another," Robert grumbled, looking fed up with the mess, "Where's your other daughter, Ned?"

"In bed, asleep," the man replied.

A corner of Cersei's mouth twitched, "She's not. Sansa, come here, darling."

The doors of the audience chamber opened, and Ned Stark turned around with a mix of shock and confusion on his weary face to see his elder daughter led in by one of the Lannister men. Despite the look of pure distress on her face, Sansa looked ever the gentle lady, with her beautiful dress of blue velvet and shiny auburn hair. She avoided her father's eyes and hung her head low to stare at her feet, ashamed.

"Tell us what happened, little dove," Cersei urged with steely impatience in her voice.

Sansa looked back at her father hesitantly, then looked at Joffrey, who sent her a sneer. She appeared trapped and was shaking as she spoke, "I — I don't know," there were whispers in the hall at her hesitant confession, "I don't remember…Everything happened so fast…" Sansa kept mumbling tearfully, "I didn't see —"

"Liar!" Arya shrieked as she launched herself at her sister like a rabid beast, dragging her by the hair and kicking her, "Lier, lier, lier!"

"Stop it! Arya!" while Eddard Stark was trying to pull his daughters apart, Esmae stole a look at her mother and saw her smirking in satisfaction as if it had been her plan from the very beginning. And something told the princess that it indeed had been.

"She's as wild as that animal of hers," Cersei said, "I want her punished."

The king threw his hands up, "What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Dammit, children fight, it's over!"

The Queen was infuriated, "Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life."

"Good," Robert told her, "You've coddled him long enough." Esmae felt her mouth twitch.

The king huffed an exasperating breath and rose from his seat, announcing the end of the ridiculous audience, "Ned, see to it that your daughter is disciplined, I'll do the same with my son."

Eddard nodded, "Gladly, your Grace," he stepped away to let the king pass.

"What of the direwolf?" Cersei's words made Robert stop, "What of the beast that savaged your son?"

The king sighed, "I forgot the damned wolf."

"We found no trace of the dire wolf, Your Grace," one of the guards notified him dutifully.

"No? So be it," Robert made another attempt to depart from the hall and was yet again stopped by his wife.

"We have another wolf," she reminded with a vicious calmness.

It took some time for the king to think it over, and when he did, he sighed irritably, "As you will. Have See Ilyn deal with it."

"You can't mean that," Eddard implored, but Robert would have none of it.

"Enough, Ned. Direwolfs are no pets. Get her a dog, she'll be happier for it."

It seemed that Sansa hadn't comprehended who they were speaking of, and when the realization had finally hit the girl, she started crying, "No, you can't mean Lady! Please, she didn't too anything! She didn't bite anyone! She's good!" Sansa begged, tears streaming down her cheeks.

_This is it, Lady Sansa_, Esmae thought as she watched the heartbreaking scene before her, _this is your new family_. Joffrey had a nauseating smirk on his face — he truly enjoyed the sight of pain, physical or emotional. And as reluctant as Esmae was to involve herself in this situation any further, she wouldn't let her disturbed brother get any pleasure from torturing the girl any more than he had already done.

"Father, this is ridiculous. One can hardly blame an animal for seeking to protect its master. Do we really want to begin our alliance with the Starks by spilling the blood of a direwolf, their sigil?" she spoke in a composed, confident manner, as Septa Eglantine had always taught her. She was exactly who the people knew her to be — the gentle princess, a peace-bringer, a kind-hearted golden Baratheon.

"Your brother could've died," Cersei seethed, and Esmae felt the weight of her mother's fury on her shoulders. And yet, she didn't bend under it.

"Joffrey," she now turned to her brother with an uncharacteristically warm smile, "Lady Sansa is to be your wife, your future Queen. Show her the kindness and the magnanimity the whole Kingdom knows you to posses," the crowd began whispering again, all eyes on the Crown Prince. Joffrey shrank visibly under the attention, "Surely you can forgive a senseless beast for a couple of scratches to make your betrothed happy?" Cersei raised a brow at her daughter, and if Esmae hadn't known better, she would mistake it for a sign of admiration.

Joffrey's beady eyes swept the room and he shuffled uncomfortably, "I suppose I can grant my forgiveness," he relented begrudgingly. Lady Sansa was still sobbing but her blue eyes lit up with hope, "I am a warrior, after all, and what are a few scars but a sign of bravery? I fought the beast and came out alive," he declared pompously as if everyone hadn't heard the true story.

"Very well," Robert grunted, absolutely unbothered by the decision but glad the audience was finally over, "But I want the beast chained up," he told Eddard.

"I'll do it myself," the man gave a solemn nod.

"Then it's settled."

Esmae caught Arya Stark staring at her and sent the girl a wink.

* * *

The rest of the way to King's Landing was dull and uneventful. No one had any qualms about it. They'd had their feel with wild beats and hunts for little girls, and were happy to travel in peace with nothing to disturb it.

The Stark household had ridden off the morning after the unfortunate audience and had therefore reached the capitol much earlier than the king and his retinue, which was moving leisurely. At some point Robert had abandoned his horse and got so drunk, he had to be carried in a wheelhouse the rest of the way.

The king's party had reached the capitol a day later. By the time they rode through the bronze doors of the Red Keep, Esmae was half asleep, irritated by her mother's silence and pointed stares and absolutely filthy from the exhausting journey. She longed to have a long hot bath and to feel the cool silk of her featherbed against her hot skin. Tommen had become quite cranky as well and had trouble falling asleep, which meant that he was up babbling away, and as much as Esmae adored his enthusiasm, she wished he would close his little mouth for just a few minutes.

As soon as the wheelhouse came to a stop, Esmae opened the door and practically jumped out, surprising the guards and the servants who had been waiting in the yard to help her out. Without sparing them a single glance, she made for the holdfast, an air of exasperation around her. Esmae could hear little footsteps following close behind, and didn't have to turn around to know that it was Lady Melysa trying to catch up with her.

Her mood meliorated somewhat after a much-needed hot soak and some hours of sleep that wasn't interrupted by Tommen or the guards laughing and drinking without her tent. Come evening, Esmae was feeling herself again and was ready to pick up where she had left before her journey to the North.

"I need you to find Fenwick and tell him to meet me at the Maidenvault," she told Melysa after the girl had finished preparing her for dinner.

"But won't anyone see?" Melysa whispered.

"No one goes there," Esmae reasoned and fixed a strand of her dark hair, "No one resides there at the moment, and the guards have no business keeping an eye on it."

She left dinner early, excusing herself after the third course under the pretense of feeling sickly. Of course, Cersei hadn't believed her — the feline orbs watched Esmae's every move, and she could feel them piercing her back as she retreated from the small hall. Cersei had been acting obnoxiously cold ever since Esmae had gone against her wish to kill the Starks' direwolf. It was almost comical how betrayed she had been by such a small act and refused to say a single word to her daughter. Joffrey, too, was particularly annoying, if not exceptionally cruel to her, his remarks more pointed and crude. It was alright, Esmae thought, they could hiss at her all they wanted. Silence was mightier than petty words. And words were all Joffrey's threats were. Esmae'd be impressed and even proud of her little brother if he had seen any of them through.

Fenwick was already waiting for her near the tall, carved doors of the Maidenvault, a cloak over his shoulders and a dark hood covering his head. He was pacing back and forth and halted when he heard footsteps echo through the walls.

"Good to see you too," Esmae responded to the horror-stricken look on his face.

"Y-your Grace," Fenwick stuttered.

Despite the same shaken demeanor, it seemed the boy had finally grown into his age in her absence. Fenwick looked different from the last time she had seen him, with his now broader shoulders and an extra inch to his height. His light brown hair became slightly longer and curled, giving him the innocent look girls much favored.

"Any news?"

Fenwick chortled almost nervously, "Oh, you've certainly missed a lot," he stopped laughing and added with a straight face, "Your Grace."

"Do you expect me to pat you on the head and give you a treat?" Esmae urged, "I'm listening."

And Fenwick told her a great many fascinating things. Among them were those that made Esmae roll her eyes at their ridiculous insignificance, some earned her upmost attention, and others made her blood run cold as the northern winds. One of such news was uncle Stannis's decision to sail to Dragonstone not long after the king's departure to the north. A trip from which he hadn't yet returned.

What struck Esmae the most, however, was a horrible story of the newly-knighted squire, who had been found dead near the Blackwater Bay.

"Dead?" Esmae questioned, suspicious.

"They say it was a brawl in Flea Bottom," Fenwick said. He stayed silent for a while before talking again, "Sabina thinks that it was Baelish's doing. I have to say, it does make sense. He would want to erase any trail that might lead to him."

"Why knight the boy then?"

"To draw away any suspicion, I'd wager."

Esmae shook her head, "No, it doesn't add up."

She wouldn't put murder past Littlefinger but was quite sure that this particular case had nothing to do with him. What did he have to gain from killing the man who had helped build him up? He was a smart and ambitious man, who knew better than to bite the very hand that had been feeding him.

"Sabina was pretty sure," said Fenwick as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Sabina is a whore, not a watchman. We shouldn't make any conclusions until we have considered everything else. And there is plenty," Esmae's emerald eyes glimmered dangerously in the dim lights of the Maidenvault. This place had always scared her whenever she happened to wander in there as a little girl. It was as if its walls had kept the sadness and the anguish of the three sisters of Baelor the Blessed still.

Fenwick's chocolate eyes lit up, "There is more. One of the lads I was friends with, Doryn's his name, great pals we were…" he trailed off and cleared his throat when he noticed the impatience in Esmae's eyes, "He used to be Lord Arryn's potboy, is what I'm saying, but was discharged after the whole stealing thing, works as a cordwainer now. _Thing is_," Fenwick announced loudly, feeling that he was getting off-topic again, "the lad is keen on gossip and hears plenty from the kitchen wenches he hangs around with," he leaned in, "He tells me that Lord Arryn had been arguing with the King quite often in his last months, acting a bit off. Running around with the King's brother."

Esmae frowned, "Which brother?"

Fenwick shrugged, "He didn't say and I didn't ask. Didn't want to come off prying. Any _more_ prying, that is."

_The King's brother_. It couldn't be Renly, she thought, for he hadn't cared for the man or anyone else, really, except for very few people in his life. Could it be Stannis? Was that why he had left so suddenly?

"Alright," Esmae said slowly, digesting the information.

But it seemed, that wasn't quite it, "There's one more thing, Your Grace," she gestured for him to go on, "One of the whores, em… sent to…to _tend_ to Grand Maester Pycelle, said that the old man had a strange book on the table in his solar, a cumbersome one," Fenwick's face was on fire by the time he had finished, "said she hadn't seen it before and thought it odd."

"What book was it?"

He shrugged, "She couldn't tell. Doesn't know how to read."

Esmae huffed out an annoyed breath, "So that's it then? We have a dead newly-knighted squire, an illiterate whore and a gossiping cordwainer?"

"I wish there was more, Your Grace," Fenwick offered apologetically.

It wasn't his fault, Esmae thought, but the fault of the woman who could easily swallow the poor lad whole without even chewing. Sabina had more to say, she was sure of it, but the whore's hatred towards Petyr Baelish made her too biased for Esmae's liking.

"I need you to pass Sabina a massage," she heard Fenwick gulp soundly at the prospect of visiting the brothel again, "Tell her to meet me in the Eel Alley tomorrow at dusk. She'll know what I'm talking about."

* * *

Esmae had been taught how to properly smile and laugh when she was five years of age. Therefore, she knew that there were a great many ways to display one's mirth, be that genuine or perfectly artificial. She also knew that in one's life, there weren't many times where one would feel like laughing and smiling in earnest, and so the majority of smiles and laughs exchanged between the ever so gracious ladies were as faux as their courtesies.

But despite all the classes with Septa Eglantine and life lessons received from her mother, there were moments when Esmae didn't even feel like offering the faintest of smiles and the fakest of laughs.

It was now precisely one of those moments.

"I hear knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms will arrive for the Hand's tournament!" one of the ladies told the others excitedly, her voice bordering on a screech.

"The King is said to offer forty thousand golden dragons to the champion."

"Will the King participate?"

"Oh, would that Ser Jaime of Lannister won. Who do you think he would crown the Queen of Love and Beauty?"

Esmae took a deep breath and looked to the sun shining over the gardens like one of its many flowers striving for the warmth. Her mother had pointed out, after a long time of silence, that she had a duty to perform as a princess, which included sharing tea with a very particular set of ladies in the garden's alcove. And there she now was, surrounded by the giggling maidens and drinking tea, wishing it was something much redder and much more numbing.

"I wonder if Ser Loras will take part in it," some girl mentioned. She had pretty chestnut hair, if not a little thin, styled in the southorn fashion, her brown eyes warm and inviting. Esmae didn't know her name but that she was of House Florent, one of Stannis's nieces, "I hope he will. He is ever so comely, is he not?"

Esmae felt like the question was directed at her. It was probably because of the girl's expectant gaze, "Yes, I suppose he is rather easy to look at," she allowed with a reluctant smile.

The girls broke down into giggles.

"I've caught a glimpse of him this morn," one of the ladies said. The piece of gossip worked like honey for bees. The rest of the girls looked to her with undiluted excitement, "He arrived on a white horse in a dazzling set of blue armor. I'd reckon it means that he will be jousting."

The ladies all nodded in agreement.

"He is said to be an incredibly skilled jouster," the Florent girl said.

"Didn't he unsaddle Ser Jaime?"

It was the first time Esmae felt an honest urge to laugh. She remembered the childish scowl on her uncle's face and the way he still bristled when reminded of that tournament.

"Oh yes he did," Esmae smiled fondly at the memory, "which is why Ser Jaime has decided to abstain from jousting this time".

That day seemed far away but it had been only a year. And yet so many things had changed. Where once had been peace was now an unsettling feeling of imminent change. Something told Esmae that it wouldn't be of the good kind.

It appeared that the troubles, however, had begun long before Lord Arryn's death if what Fenwick had told her was true. Could it be that her father was the one responsible? No, Esmae decided, she was almost positive that it had been poison that killed the man, and while she knew not what kind of poison precisely, she knew that it was a coward's weapon and for all the things King Robert was, no one could ever fault him for being a coward.

No, he would never do it, if not for cowardice, then for the fact that Jon Arryn was akin to a father to him. Yes, Robert was a hot-headed and bad-tempered man, but he was as quick to forgive as he was to rouse, which made Esmae think that there hadn't been any real animosity between him and the former Hand. Or anyone else, really — Jon Arryn had been a well-liked man. The only person Esmae could think of, who hadn't taken a particular liking to the solemn man, was her mother…_No_, Esmae willed herself to nip the thought before it could spring into something more. Cersei was no killer. Despite the talk of her viciousness, Esmae doubted her mother was capable of murder.

And then there was her uncle Stannis. Esmae had never been particularly close to the man. He reminded her more of a Crone's statue rather than a man alive. Everything about him seemed grey and uninviting, and Esmae truly felt for his poor wife, who had to endure his frigidness every night. But that was hardly reason enough to consider him a murderer.

Stannis was a pious man, who lived faithfully by the Seven. He would never commit such a sin. Would he? _But why did he run off to Dragonstone?_

Overwhelmed by the thoughts of plots, treason and treasonous plots, Esmae soon found herself with a headache that suffered horribly from the high-pitched voices and giggles of her ladies. She was quite unable to bear it for a second more and had to gently excuse herself from their company under the pretense of feeling ill. Lady Melysa was quick to jump up from her seat and readily escorted Esmae away from the garden.

"Men go to wars and women have to survive tea parties," she said as they walked through the empty throne room and into the outer yard, "I'd say both are equally excruciating, wouldn't you, Lady Melysa?"

The handmaiden smiled and gave a timid nod, "It was rather boresome."

Just as the two of them were passing by the small council chambers, its doors flew open and out walked the Hand of the King, followed by Lord Renly and Littlefinger. Lord Stark looked the worse for wear, Esmae noted, his face ever so gloomy, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jon Snow.

Lord Baelish was the first to notice her. Esmae instantly stiffened with unease as she felt his shrewd eyes looking in her direction. For if she was afraid of someone, and it was rarely the case, Petyr Baelish would surely be that person.

Nothing was as frightening as a man hungry for power and lacking any semblance of morality, and Littlefinger was as ambitious as he was ruthless. His black hair was laced with silver that perfectly matched the shining mockingbird pin he always wore — the sigil of his slowly growing House. His pointy beard and the ever-present smirk made for a staggeringly fiendish appearance that made one want to come closer and run as fast as they could all at the same time. Petyr Baelish was a man in the shadows, friend to no one but himself, who positively reveled in the games of his own making.

"Princess Esmae," he greeted, "I trust you are well this morning."

"Lord Baelish," she nodded to the Master of Coin and then shifted her eyes to the new Hand, a smile on her face, "Lord Stark. How do you find your new position?"

"The realm is certainly in good hands, My Princess," Petyr quipped before Eddard had a chance to answer.

"All is well, Your Grace," Lord Stark replied for himself, his voice low and raspy.

"I am sure my father will be happy to hear that."

Lord Renly snorted, "Oh, that he will. _His_ hands are _certainly_ busy."

"Your Grace," Eddard Stark called tentatively. Esmae noticed Baelish quirk a brow at that, "May I escort you to the holdfast?"

She masked her confusion with perfect ease, "I would be honored. You'll have to excuse me, my lords. It appears the new Hand of the King has some business to discuss with me," Esmae said with a teasing smile, "Lord Baelish, it was a pleasure meeting you. Uncle, we shall have words later. I want to see that new chest plate you've commissioned," Renly's brows rose at the hidden implication of her words.

Esmae cursed Eddard Stark's absolute disregard for courtly lies that were known by the name of _discreetness_. Now that he had so publicly invited the princess for a conversation, and in front of Lord Baelish, at that, her mother would surely hear of it and would demand to know every single word exchanged.

"I haven't had the chance to thank you for what you did for my daughter, Your Grace," Lord Stark said as they walked into the middle bailey through the portcullis, Melysa following close behind like a shadow.

"It wouldn't do to see an animal slain for one man's folly," Esmae said plainly.

Lord Stark huffed out a laugh.

"My lord?" she raised her eyes at him, slightly confused.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. It is only that you remind me so much of your father and yet…yet you are so unlike him."

The walls of the Red Keep had swelled with newly-arrived visitors and participants of the tournament. Little squires were running around on their mentors' errands, the stables were overflowing with horses, that poor stable boys had trouble accommodating; knights were gathered around the armory, laughing heartily and actively discussing all the proper ways to unsaddle a competitor.

"Sadly, the only thing the king and I have in common is the hair and our love for a good drink. Would that I could wield a hammer like him," Esmae laughed and kept walking until she noticed that there was no one by her side. Stopping in her tracks, she turned around and saw Lord Stark standing a little behind, a pondering look on his long, solemn face.

"My lord?" Esmae called to him.

"You will have to forgive me, Your Grace," he said slowly, "There is an urgent matter I ought to see to."

A barely perceptible frown betrayed Esmae's confusion, "But of course, I shall not stall you, my lord. I do hope we can talk again," she smiled.

"So do I, My Princess," Lord Stark gave a light bow before trudging away in the direction of the Tower of the Hand.

Esmae remained standing at the foot of the Serpentine steps, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Jon Arryn's successor.

* * *

Esmae made for her uncle's chambers, fully determined to learn the truth._ Running around with the King's brother_ — that was what the potboy had told Fenwick, and although she was almost completely sure that it wasn't Renly, Esmae wouldn't rest until she heard it from him directly.

She pushed the doors open and strode in unceremoniously. Renly was standing on a plinth in the middle of the chambers, a tailor kneeling before him. The position would have been rather scandalous had the man not been holding a needle in his hand.

Renly turned to the entrance and smiled when he saw her, "You have marvelous timing, little fawn. What do you think of this fabric?" he motioned to the tunic of light green brocade with golden flowers and stags embroidered on it.

Esmae walked in and settled in an armchair that gave her the perfect view of her uncle's appearance. She took it in with a critical eye, "What's the occasion?"

The look Renly sent her was that of offense and annoyance, "_The Masquerade_," he said pointedly, "Should I remind you that you, too, need to be making preparations?"

"Isn't the purpose of a masquerade to conceal one's identity?"

Renly raised a brow, "Your point being?"

"The stags rather give it away, don't you think?" Esmae pointed out with an airy shrug.

He huffed in response and told the cowering tailor to leave them, "Be sure to come back later. We have yet to pick out a fabric for the doublet."

It was no wonder the people loved him, Esmae thought. Renly was a dashing lord that was quick to laugh, generous with dazzling smiles and fluent in courtesies. Everyone yearned to fall under his charm, which enveloped one in the warm blanket of importance and care.

"They say a rose has sprung in King's Landing," Esmae told him slyly when the tailor had left the rooms, taking all the fabrics with him.

Renly took off the tunic and walked to the redwood table in nothing but his tight breeches, "I've heard of it," he poured himself some wine from the jug and handed the second goblet to Esmae, "Your Lady Mother has been whispering in the Kings ear about him lately."

"Has she really?"

_How very not surprising at all._

"It would be a fine match," Renly considered and took a sip of the wine, "Loras is a fine Knight, a Tyrell and one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm — "

"— _and_ buggers my uncle," Esmae finished for him, "or is it the other way around?"

"I could share," Renly told her with a coy smile, "Remember that kitchen boy we were both in love with when you visited Storm's End? What was his name, Dylon?"

Esmae laughed, "Daron. And we weren't in _love_ with him. More like…"

"Obsessed?" Renly offered helpfully.

"There was little else to do in that Gods' forsaken fortress."

A heavy silence set in for a few ponderous moments.

"And so we played with people," Renly said wistfully.

Esmae's eyes fell to the dark liquid in her goblet, "And so we played with people."

"Speaking of manipulation and plots," Renly announced loudly and with sudden cheerfulness, "You wanted to discuss something?" Downing the rest of the drink, he went to his bed and put on the shirt that he had apparently discarded during the fitting.

Everyone always said there Renly was a perfect image of young Robert, with his long jet-black hair and the Baratheon blue eyes that would sometimes glimmer green. He was, however, much less athletic than his belligerent brother and a little shorter, too.

Esmae loved Renly. Having no one her age to play with and Joffrey being a complete prat, the only other person she could turn to was her uncle, who was but five years her senior. Renly would often come to the capitol with Stannis to pay a visit to their brother the king, and those were the happiest moments of Esmae's childhood. They would run around the Keep together, and sometimes when no one was watching, Renly would try on her dresses and they would play monsters-and-maidens in the confines of the princess's chambers. And sometimes Esmae would stay at Storm's End as well, much to Cersei's displeasure, and they would explore the fortress, hiding away from Septa Eglantine.

The princess had hardly been a rebellious child and had never thrown fits, but for the one time after Renly's sixteenth name day. Esmae had begged her parents to let her come with him on a lord's progress across stormlands, and while Robert had been moved by her teary cries, Cersei's face stayed as stern as her voice when she told her _No_.

But Renly always shared everything with her. He had told her of the beauty of the Sapphire Isle and the picturesque sunsets at Sunspear, of the love the vassals of stormlands bore him and the love _he_ bore the man she would soon know as the Knight of Flowers. She knew all his secrets, and he knew some of hers, and that was the way it had always been between the two of them.

"Have you heard from Stannis recently?" Esmae decided not to hesitate, for Renly could always see through her lies.

He threw on a doublet of azure blue and started buttoning it, "Not since he ever so discretely removed himself to Dragonstone," there was an apparent accusation in his voice.

"You think there was more behind his departure?" Esmae asked, prodding for more information.

"My brother isn't one for recreational travel, little fawn."

"Then what do you think made him leave so hastily?"

Renly adjusted the doublet in the looking glass and put on a gilded belt adorned with an antlered stag's head in the middle, "What do you think?" he said as he turned to Esmae, "Stannis ran away with a tail between his legs. The only thing hanging down there, it would seem."

She frowned, "What would he be afraid of?"

"Probably the same men responsible for the former Hand's death," Renly answered airily and took a scabbard from the stand.

A cold ran down Esmae's spine. She had suspected that Jon Arryn's passing hadn't been brought upon by a sudden illness, but hearing it from someone else made it horrifyingly real, "You think he was murdered?"

"I think he was _poisoned_, yes. And whatever had caused it, Stannis was involved as well."

"How so?"

"Oh, sweet child, but the North did make you ignorant," Renly sighed and looked at her with pity, "My brother had become ever the bosom friends with Lord Arryn in the man's last months, as I'm sure you already know. Quite the pair, really."

_Running around with the King's brother_.

"And you think it strange?"

Renly snorted, "Strange is hardly the word for it, darling. Did you know Arryn asked Stannis to help him choose the design of a new suit of plate? My brother is a man…of a certain number of talents. Following the current trends of fashion, however, is not one of them," Renly fastened the scabbard around his waist and secured his sword on it, "If _that_ isn't downright scandalous, then surely their occasional trips to a brothel should seem alarming."

_That _she hadn't heard about.

"Stannis? Visiting a brothel?" Esmae wondered with wide eyes, "To burn it, surely? And scourge the lot of them into the depth of the Narrow Sea?"

Renly shrugged and appraised himself in the mirror, "A grey beard but lusty heart, is that what they say? Perhaps Stannis had decided that the _little Stan_ needed some socializing?"

There was a small pause before they both began laughing, "Oh Gods, but it does sound ridiculous," Esmae would much readily believe that Stannis had sought to overthrow the King, "But how do you know all of this?"

Renly gave her one of his most dashing smiles as he combed his luscious dark locks, "I have my sources as I'm sure you have yours," she told her ominously.

"Fair is fair," Esmae hid her smile behind the goblet as she took a sip from it.

Silence enveloped them both for a moment, before Renly turned to her, his eyes no longer shining with mirth. They looked strikingly blue now, to match the doublet he was wearing, "I know you're not going to listen to me and I am a fool for even saying this…but _please_, Esmae, please stay away from this. The realm had only just recovered from the war, and now the peace is as frail as it had ever been," he implored, and Esmae found herself without words, staring at the Lord Renly with wide eyes, "Something wicked is brewing, and Lord Arryn's death was just the beginning."

"The beginning of what?" she uttered.

"You would do well to stop asking so many questions, little fawn, lest you find yourself in the middle of a wild storm."

For a second Esmae just looked at him, confused and scared at the same time, before a ghost of a smile appeared on her face, "I am a Baratheon. Durran the Storm King withstood the Gods' rage," Esmae told him, "I can take on a little tempest."

* * *

Esmae felt restless as she was preparing to sneak out of the Red Keep to meet with Sabina. A myriad of thoughts were swirling in her head, each battling for attention, and Esmae found that she was too exhausted to give a care about any of them at the moment. She secured her hair into a thick braid and wore the most inconspicuous dress she owned to stay unrecognized.

_Stannis and Jon Arryn_.

Those were the two names that flashed through her mind every time she closed her eyes. _Stannis_. From what Esmae remembered, he had never been great friends with the former Hand — Stannis was hardly close to anyone but the Seven, and his attitude towards Lord Arryn could be described as _respectful tolerance_, at best. What had suddenly created a kinship between them?

The potboy had mentioned the many arguments Jon Arryn'd had with the king, no doubt troubled by the crown's enormous debts and seeking to implore Robert to cut down on expenses. Could it be that he had given up on fighting with her father and taken another path instead?

Stannis had a valid claim to the throne. Not the strongest, but good enough to earn him the needed support, especially with the help of the Lord of the Vail and the Hand, who had been loved by many. And Jon Arryn had made her father king once. Who's to say he wouldn't do the same with Stannis if the realm's future had been at stake? And if King Robert had come to learn of the treasonous plot, he could've had Lord Arryn killed. It would make sense that Stannis had got scared and had hastily run off to Dragonstone to escape his brother's wrath.

_No_, Esmae thought, _that is ridiculous and utterly infeasible_. For all his faults, Robert was a good king and well-loved by his people, who enjoyed the peace under his rule. And if there _had_ been any such conspiracy, he would have made sure that all of the Seven Kingdoms knew of it and witnessed the punishment of those responsible. Something wasn't right. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't tell what, and it was driving her crazy.

With a dark cloak thrown over her shoulders and a hood covering her face, Esmae snuck out of her rooms just in time for the change of guards, which usually took up around half an hour. She had made sure to leave Melysa under the covers of her bed, just in case someone had an urge to check and wend her way down the dim and deserted corridors.

Halfway down the hall, Esmae heard a sound of voices and quickly slid behind a pillar. With bated breath, she watched the shadows of two men, Kingsguard, she assumed, pass by. Esmae hadn't dared move until their footsteps seemed far enough, and when there was only the echo of their voices left in the hall, she carried on her way.

The night's air was cold against her flustered skin when Esmae had finally made it out of the Maegor's and began her descent down the Serpentine stairs to the middle bailey. The Red Keep was slumbering but for a few squires that were coming back from taverns and some gold cloaks, who stood vigil in the area. Esmae cursed Maegor the Cruel with fervor for designing no secret passages in the Maegor's Holdfast. It would have certainly made the escape easier for her.

The paranoid king had placed hidden routes all over the Red Keep in case of an invasion, and while Esmae knew where many of them were, it was quite hard to find them and stay unseen at the same time. Taking a cautious look around, she ran towards the one near the Tower of the Hand and hurriedly snuck in. That passage led straight to the Visenya's Hill where Esmae would then easily get to the Eel Alley.

A dismal Old inn on Eel Alley was where she had first met Sabina Haabir.

It was on her sixteenth name day, after the grand feast thrown by her queen mother. Esmae had been quite disappointed that she wasn't allowed to have more than two goblets of wine — she had been expected to converse with each and every lord of the realm Cersei had dimmed worthy of the princess' hand, and had to keep her wits about her. Esmae had left the feast annoyed and sober — the state in which she had been approached by her uncle Tyrion. He whisked the princess out of the Red Keep with a wicked grin and showed her the wonders of the nocturnal bliss of King's Landing. He had bought Esmae her first pint of ale (that she positively hated) and treated her to a whole jug of Dornish wine. It was then, in her inebriated daze, that Esmae had spotted a group of men in the tavern, groping and leering at a tiny woman, who was standing while the rest of them were seated at the table. She had soft, caramel skin that was exposed due to the sheer material of her peach-colored toga, flimsy and torn and dirty. She was, doubtless, a foreigner, and from the distant look in her dark eyes and the way she endured the jeers and slaps from her fellow travelers, a slave.

Esmae had expressed her concerns to Tyrion, for she had never before seen a woman treated in such a way, but he urged her to relax for "_it was the way things were_". Esmae hated the way things were and after a jug of wine was not scared to express that out loud.

Suffice to say, she had no business starting brawls in taverns, and Esmae didn't even want to think what could've happened, had it not been for the gold cloaks Tyrion had paid handsomely to accompany them on that escapade. The slavers had been thrown out and beaten tenfold. Esmae knew not what became of them. She hoped they had been fed to the dogs or sent to the Wall. To Jon Snow. _What noble warriors_, she scoffed inwardly.

As for the mysterious slave girl, Tyrion had quickly recognized her potential. Sabina had a sharp tongue with a wit to match, which he greatly appreciated, and quite a lot of other favorable attributes. Ever the gracious whoremonger, her uncle had found a place for the girl in one of the best establishments in the city.

And that was the day Sabina Haabir had struck a deal with Esmae Baratheon without even knowing it.

The princess entered the inn and traveled to the faraway table through the crowd of people. She took off the hood not to draw any unwanted attention — hiding in plain sight was the best thing one could do to blend in — and settled in the corner. A petit serving wench was quick to approach the new customer. She was no older than fourteen, Esmae thought with pity, way too young to be groped by the ogling drunkards. Offering the girl a smile, she ordered a jug of wine and poured herself some, eyes scanning the crowd of merchants and pilgrims, who passed through King's Landing in their travels. The fascinating view was soon blocked when a dark figure joined Esmae at the table, sitting down on the opposite side of it.

"You are late," Esmae said and took a sip of wine.

There was an apparent huff from the darkness of the hood covering the stranger's head, "_You_ have no business being here."

"Wine?" the princess offered with a barely perceptible smile.

"I do not drink," the woman replied curtly.

"Oh yes, you are a picture of propriety," Esmae mocked and poured herself some more of the tart drink. It left her tongue dry and sour, just like the conversation she was having.

Sabina stayed silent.

"You seem quite sure it was Baelish," Esmae said, trying to weasel some reaction.

"Because I know it was him," there was an unmistakable bite to Sabina's heavily accented voice.

Esmae nodded. Sabina hated Lord Baelish more than anyone in the capitol, which said a lot about their relationship. She couldn't be trusted in her judgment.

Esmae took another sip, "And what do you know of Stannis Baratheon?"

"The King's brother? I doubt you'll find a whore acquainted with him. One that lived to tell the tale anyway. A shame, truly. You know what they say? That his cock is as stiff as himself," she laughed darkly, "Yeah, I know nothing of him".

Sabina was a crude and shameless woman. _An Enchantress_ they called her, for she drew men in with her sultry black eyes and left them begging for more with her sensual lips. She spoke the common language well enough for a slave and possessed an accent that coated every word that left her mouth in seductive sweetness. It was no wonder that Sabina was one of Littlefinger's best girls; _the exotic jewel of the whorehouse_.

"He visited a brothel here in King's Landing," Esmae told her, "I need you to find out which one."

"And how am I to do that?" she imagined Sabina to raise one of her dark eyebrows.

"I trust you'll find a way," Esmae said sweetly and placed a weighty little pouch on the table, "Expect Fenwick within the week."

Sabina laughed, the sound low as if coming from the depth of her throat, "Tell him I'll be waiting."

It was nearing midnight when Esmae made it back to the Red Keep. Her heart was beating soundly in her chest as she walked the tunnels in complete darkness, wary of using the lantern lest she drew any attention, as unlikely as it was, at such a late hour. Soon her eyes adjusted enough that she could make out her surroundings, and Esmae halted when she saw a figure standing at the end of the tunnel, a torch illuminating their round face and beady black eyes.

"Lord Varys."

* * *

**A/N:** _Cliffhanger, anyone? I wonder what's going to happen to Esmae now that she's been caught, and by the Spider, at that. _

_Again, thank you all for following this story! I'm beyond grateful. Feel free to leave your theories and thoughts in the comments!__Love, Mary_


	7. Players and Spectators

**A/N:** _Heeey guys, here's another chapter! It was quick, wasn't it? Pretty shocking what can be achieved without procrastination. Who could've thought, huh? _

_Also, just a heads up: I've made some changes in the previous chapter, small ones, really. I decided to follow the books with the Tyrell's, which makes Willas the heir instead of Loras. That's it, no more changes. _

_Huge thank you for the follows, favourites and the comments! Truly does make the writing experience better and_ my_ lazy ass more productive. Honestly, don't hate ficwriters for basically begging for your feedback, because it does get the chapters written faster when we know that someone is excited to read them. Soooo _please_ leave your comments? *batting my eyelashes*_

_Okay, I'm gonna shut up now. Happy reading!_

* * *

The Red Keep was a dangerous place, and Esmae knew it better than anyone. She knew of the shadows lurking in its darkest corners, knew of the eyes watching from the walls, and of spiders weaving their web in deadly, calculative silence, waiting for an insolent prey to fall into the elaborate trap.

And still, knowing all of it, fall into the trap Esmae did.

The fires danced around the dark figure clad in billowy robes, finding malicious reflection in the obsidian eyes of the man known as the Spider. Despite herself, Esmae could feel chilling dread coiling in her belly. In truth, there was no real reason to be afraid, for the man in front of her was harmless. Well, harmless as the quicksands of Dornish deserts can be, but harmless nonetheless. There was no danger to his actions, but to his words that travelled with the wind, carried on the wings of many little birds.

"Princess Esmae," he greeted in a gentle voice, "Fine time for a stroll, is it not? We do have to take advantage of the last moments of summer before the long winter befalls us".

"I suppose I wasn't as discreet as I'd believed myself to be," Esmae admitted with a small smile.

"Oh, you were perfectly cautious, Your Grace. My birds had some trouble learning it was you."

"Not too much trouble, it seems, for you are here," she pointed out quite irritably, voice laced with steel.

She could make out a smile forming on the man's lips, "Walk with me, Your Grace," Lord Varys asked, tucking his pale hands in the huge sleeves of his black robes. Esmae would never have guessed the dark figure was him had he not showed his round, powdered face. She was used to seeing the man swanning about the Red Keep in his soft slippers, wearing rich silks and velvets, with an eerily calm mien as if nothing in the whole world could irk him.

After a moment's hesitation, Esmae exited the narrow tunnel with feline grace and joined Lord Varys in the dimly illuminated cellar. She was afraid of it once. Afraid of the sinister dragon skulls that still shone with magnificence and might, remnants of the splendour of Valyria and the great Aegon the Conqueror that Tommen was so obsessed with. They used to terrify her as a child but later only served to make her sad, for it was a true tragedy that something so powerful had been reduced to naught but dust and bone.

"Have you learned anything of importance, Your Grace?" Lord Varys asked as they walked past the skull of Balerion. Esmae's eyes lingered on the deep hollows where his reptilian eyes had once been. She quickly tore them away.

"Nothing you don't already know, my lord."

"Oh but I'm sure you know a great deal more than the King's Hand," he told her airily.

Esmae stopped, confusion etched on her face, "Lord Stark?"

"Last I checked, he remains the Hand still," Lord Varys said with a pinch sarcasm so gentle, it was barely perceptible in his effeminate voice, "He has, however, been rather…heedless. Direwolf is a ferocious animal, but here in the south, we have beasts of our own. Lord Stark seemed to have forgotten that."

"What did he do?" Esmae asked warily.

"Our Hand has been quite busy making new acquaintances," Lord Varys told her ponderously, "He is reckless, dangerously so, and hungry for the truth. And the truth he shall find. Quite soon, I would wager."

"This is not a matter of who comes first, Lord Varys," Esmae snapped, trying to keep her composure, still.

"But it _is_ a game, is it not, Your Grace? All of us are players, and Lord Stark has just made his move."

Her eyes shone with malice like burning wildfire when she looked at him, "And this is yours?"

A shadow of a smile crossed his face. It told Esmae all she wished to know.

"Tell me of the Hand's new acquaintance, Lord Varys."

The cellar felt cold and empty as they walked through it, only the sounds of their steps echoing through the mighty stone walls.

"I hear it was a common boy down in Flea Bottom. An apprentice of a praised armourer, favoured by many a knight; that of Flowers also."

Esmae thought back to her conversation with Renly. He had told her that Jon Arryn and uncle Stannis had visited an armourer together, to commission a new plate, he had said. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Lord Varys was watching her, "I see you have heard of him."

"I thank you for this information, my lord," Esmae told him sternly, perfectly knowing that he would someday except something of her in return.

Lord Varys nodded with reverence, "All I do, I do for the realm, Your Grace."

Esmae smiled gently, a smile that bore a significant amount of poison, "You whispered into Aerys' ear and watched him fall. Now you whisper into my father's and expect me to believe that your intentions are good and fair?"

The bold man deliberated for quite some time as they walked in silence, "There are two kinds of people you will meet in the Red Keep, Your Grace. Doubtless, you know that already. Those who are loyal to the realm and those who are loyal to themselves only. I wonder which one are you," his obsidian eyes twinkled in the fires that alighted the cellar.

"I am loyal to my family, Lord Varys."

"Family," he repeated ponderously, "Frail ties that bind us to naught but strangers. Yet we share a father and a mother, come from the same blood," he said and looked at her, "And still, the Gods claim it runs true in the son rather than the daughter. Do you believe in this, Your Grace?"

"Gods claim nothing but our lives, Lord Varys, that's why they're Gods. I believe that blood is blood; hot and red and easy to spill," Esmae replied cooly, knowing the true intent of his sly words, "At the end, we all bleed the same."

"I'm afraid soon it will be the real that bleeds," Lord Varys said, "Gods, they work in mysterious ways, Your Grace. At times such as these, it seems they laugh upon us from the skies and place their bets on who falls to their tricks next."

"And who do you favour in this game?" Esmae asked, eyes glimmering in the fires, "Where does your gold lie, Lord Varys?"

The man smiled, "I place no bets, Your Grace. As I said, I am merely a spectator."

* * *

"Have you ever been to a tournament, Lady Melysa?"

Esmae was walking back from her early morning walk in the gardens in surprisingly high spirits. She had wished to enjoy some solitude before the tournament commenced later in the day, and her loyal and taciturn handmaiden was a welcome company.

"I haven't, Your Grace," the girl answered timidly. A bashful smile bloomed on her heart-shaped face, "In truth, I'm quite looking forward to this one."

Esmae quirked a brow at that, "Truly? Might I inquire as to why?"

"All the knights arriving at the capitol, it's…exciting," It was the first time Esmae saw the girl's face anything else but melancholic.

"Are you hoping to find yourself a husband?"

"No!" Lady Melysa almost shrieked, "Of course not, Your Grace. It is the atmosphere that excites me," she explained, "It reminds me of the old times. The gallant knights and princes…"

"Yes, gallant princes are a rarity these days," Esmae muttered as they walked into the outer yard. It was indeed full of knights and lordlings and unlike Lady Melysa, the princess wasn't particularly enjoying the air of festivity.

"I-I — pardon me, Your Grace, I didn't mean…" Lady Melysa stuttered, "Prince Joffrey is very gallant indeed —"

"Ah yes, he is the face of chivalry itself," Esmae said wryly.

Lady Melysa's cheeks burned a bright red and she suddenly became very silent. Esmae was about to taunt her some more, for it was great fun indeed, but her attention was snatched by a familiar mop of brown hair flickering in the stables. With a frown on her face, Esmae collected the skirts of her dress and strutted to Fenwick, who was absolutely unaware of the nearing avalanche.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

The brush he was grooming the horse with almost fell our of Fenwick's hands when he started, "Bloody — Your Grace, " he breathed out, trying to gain his composure. His eyes then flickered to the girl behind the princess, "L-lady Melysa."

The handmaiden sent Fenwick a small smile. Esmae was still looking at him with a raised brow, awaiting an answer.

"I'm preparing Ser Jaime's horse," he explained stupidly.

"I can see that," the white charger was caparisoned in Lannister red and gold, "_Why?_"

Fenwick shuffled uncomfortably, eyes running around the stables where other horses were being prepared, "Because he asked me to," he replied at last, though very carefully as if there could be a wrong answer to this question.

Esmae's brows flew up in surprise, "Ser Jaime is participating?"

"Yeah," Fenwick became significantly more relaxed, "didn't you know?"

"Where is he?"

"Preparing in his tent, I reckon."

Esmae thanked bewildered Fenwick for his assistance and gave Lady Melysa leave to go before setting off to find Jaime. Ser Oakheart who had been following her around like a shadow that she pointedly ignored, accompanied her out of the Red Keep to the riverbank where the pavilions and tents were broken down. Knights from many Houses came to run in the Hand's Tourney, and their many sigils could be seen on shields placed outside their occupants' tents. Esmae walked through the crowds of men with her chin raised high, taking no notice of the stares sent her way — it was certainly no place for a lady. She was, however, a pleasant surprise for many participants who were in need of good cheer before the jousting began.

Tyrion loved tournaments. He always said that while he couldn't knock the prancing knights off their horses, he would gladly see them knocked out by ale as he outdrank each and every one of them. It was his own sort of tournament, one that he always won and crowned a new Queen of Love and Beauty every day, sometimes even two of them in a night.

Esmae wondered how he was doing. The last time she had heard from him, Tyrion was in Winterfell and told her all about his time at the Wall and the trials and tribulations of Jon Snow. He promised to write again when he reached Riverrun, and there was no word from him yet. Esmae was starting to get worried and calmed herself any way she could. It was Tyrion, after all, she thought. Anything could've happened, and they would surely laugh about it together when he came back.

Spotting a sizable shield blazoned with a roaring lion that glistened under the bright sun, Esmae entered the tent with little preamble, leaving Ser Oakheart standing sentry at its entrance. Thankfully, her uncle was decent. A squire boy was putting a set of golden armour on him, buckling it deftly while Ser Jaime admired himself in the looking glass.

"Has the princess come to give me her favour?" he smiled, noticing Esmae in the reflection.

"I would if I didn't long to see you unsaddled by Ser Loras again."

"That," Jaime said with a dramatically wounded look on his handsome face, "was utterly uncalled for. Not to say, viciously cruel."

Esmae shrugged nonchalantly and settled in a cushioned chair, "I thought you would sit this one out."

Jaime snorted, "And give your father the satisfaction?" he quirked a brow at her, "I think not."

"Well, I suppose we should all be thanking the Gods that at least _he_ decided not to display his might this time."

"Wouldn't _that_ be a sight?"

They shared a laugh that died after a couple of moments, and Esmae felt the familiar pang of worry in her chest.

"Jaime," the concern in her voice erased the shit-eating smirk from Jaime's face. He looked up at her, alarm apparent in his emerald eyes that were specked with gold, "Have you had any word from Tyrion?".

At her question Jaime seemed to relax a little, "Last I heard, he was merrily passing through the Riverlands."

"In his last letter, he said he would write to me as soon as he settled in the next inn. But…it's been _too long_. Surely, he would've found a place to stay by now or better yet, don't you think you ought to be _back_ already?

Jaime's eyes softened, noticing how worried Esmae was over it, "Hey, don't trouble yourself so," he told her gently, "For all we know, Tyrion stumbled upon a warm bad in a perfectly iniquitous whorehouse and hasn't left it since."

Esmae wasn't comforted by this at all, "I just think he would've sent word," she insisted, her resolve giving a little crack. It _was_ plausible, after all.

"He will be alright, Esmae," Jaime gave her a warm smile that was so very different from the one he put on in front of the crowds. It was honest, just a little crooked and brought tiny wrinkles to his eyes, "If his sharp wit doesn't save him, then surely the Lannister gold will be good for more than paying for whores and ale."

* * *

Esmae rode to the jousting field in a litter with Cersei, who still barely shared a word with her. Esmae couldn't say she particularly minded the silence, for it was much better than her mother's riddled questions and prying conversations. She was quite content with looking out the window through the red curtain of thin silk that painted the whole city scarlet.

Their seats were on the royal dais, next to the king where he slumped in a chair with a goblet of wine in his hand, face already red. Cersei's was sour, bordering on annoyed. She sent her husband a sideways glance full of loathing and then drew her eyes back to the jousting field where the knights were slowly gathering. Esmae recognized many of them, for they came from prominent families and had had a pleasure to converse with the princess on multiple occasions; others were strangers from vassal Houses, lowly knights and riders from the free cities.

Much like a doll on a pedestal, Esmae clapped and smiled as was expected while barely registering what was going on, too busy with her own thoughts. She couldn't but wonder if Sabina had learned anything about the brothel Lord Arryn had been visiting with her uncle Stannis, had longed to leave the damn tournament right that second and go see the armourer Lord Varys had told her about in the city.

Esmae only displayed genuine interest when Ser Jaime entered the jousting field in all his golden glory, with a white cloak floating behind him and a rather pompous lion's-head helm. He rode brilliantly, as everyone had expected, and successfully unsaddled many a skilled knight. He even managed to overthrow Ser Barristan the Bold, although he had lost the first two tilts. The old man had put up quite the fight.

Esmae's curiosity was piqued when another rider was announced — Ser Hugh of the Vale. _Yet another knight from Lord Arryn's household that remained_. He was wearing a shiny new armour, no doubt only recently commissioned upon his knighting, and a cloak of deep blue, trimmed with a border of crescent moons. He was so green, so ambitious and so eager, Esmae felt sorry for the boy when it was announced that he would be riding against Gregor Clegane, better known as the Mountain. The little knight had no chance of winning. Ser Gregor had always been exceedingly aggressive and brute, twice the size of his brother and, from what Esmae could tell, twice as violent. She watched as he rode his stallion, holding his lance up in a stealthy grip, ready to strike his opponent. It was clear to everyone in the crowd who would come out as a victor, but none expected the young Ser Hugh to fall out from his horse and convulse on the ground that rapidly grew crimson with his blood. His death was quick; almost instant. The lance had stricken him right in the throat, and his body went into spasms only to still in mere seconds. And Ser Hugh of the Vale was no more.

The shock of the audience was as brief as the boy's time as a knight, and his body was quickly carried off, all traces of blood shoveled away with dirt. _Yet another knight from Lord Arryn's household that had died in an accident_. It had been no accident, however, Esmae was sure of it. Ser Gregor never missed.

She wasn't a fan of tournaments. Not because of the gore and violence, but because they were infinitely lengthy and boring. However, Esmae was a princess and couldn't appear quite as bored to death as she truthfully felt, so she would pull an excited smile from time to time, gasp when the crowd gasped, laugh along with endearingly impressionable Tommen and clap when someone who wasn't favoured by the crowed was unsaddled. The rest of the time her gaze would sweep over the crowd, watching people, some of them in particular. She saw Petyr Baelish sit next to Sansa Stark. He was leaning closer than would be dimmed appropriate, saying something to the silly girl in hushed tones, his eyes trained on Sandor Clegane who had just taken the field against Lord Renly.

_Now, why would he be talking to the Hand's daughter?_

Judging by the horror-stricken look on Sansa's face, whatever Littlefinger had told her was far from pleasant and it made Esmae all the more curious. It was only when there was a general gasp that she tore her eyes away from the pair and felt her face grow pale. The Hound had unsaddled Renly and did so with such violence that he was now lying on the ground, unmoving.

"Father," Esmae called in alarm, her heart racing.

"Calm now, child," Robert answered gruffly but she could tell that he, too, was worried.

The tribunes had grown still. Esmae watched her uncle still figure with bated breath, her heartbeat ringing in her ears. One second…two…three — the crowd cheered and she felt herself sigh in relief that left her body limp. Renly jumped to his feet as if nothing had happened with a golden tine in his hand. With a laughing smile he offered it to the Hound as a token of his victory. The man accepted the present with a snort only to throw the piece of gold to the crowds for them to claw and fight over it.

Esmae felt her eyelids droop by the time the first day of the tourney was coming to an end. The last to ride that day was the gentle Ser Loras — the great Knight of Flowers. It was small wonder why every maiden in the Seven Kingdoms seemed enamoured by his gallant ways, brown curls and eyes of bright embers. On his snow-white stallion, it was as if Ser Loras walked right off the pages of the stories Lady Sansa loved so much. The beautiful charger was draped in a lush blanket of red and white roses, and he would celebrate his every victory by riding around the fence and gifting each blushing maiden with a white rose.

But for Lady Sansa, he had plucked one of deep red. Even from her seat, Esmae could see the blush on the girl's face. It almost matched the colour of the flower she was clutching preciously in her hands as she gazed at Ser Loras, enamoured and struck by his gallantry. _Poor Lady Sansa and her misplaced affections_.

Soon the sun rolled behind the hills of two sisters and the crowd was getting tired, and so the king declared that the last three matches would take place the next day. Esmae was incredibly happy to leave her place after hours of sitting. She was twice as unhappy to go to the feast that took place at the riverside.

It was a grand affair, like any other at Robert Baratheon's court. Tables and benches stood outside of the pavilions with all kinds of exquisite foods and drinks laid out in abandon. Music was playing in the air, jugglers and fools were keeping the lords and ladies entertained, and servers kept Esmae's cup full of iced summerwine. She looked beautiful that evening, in a flowing dress of light green that had golden stags trimmed on the hanging sleeves and the neckline. Her hair was half-braided, some curls running down her back, and on her head was a gentle tiara made of gold, with shining emeralds in it.

Esmae was sat on the right of the high dais, a little away from Lady Sansa but enough to hear the girl converse with her halfwitted brother. Every time he said something exceptionally moronic, Esmae would roll her eyes and take another sip from her goblet. If Tyrion were here, she thought, they would turn it into a more elaborate drinking game. But alas he was still travelling and paying patronage to each and every whorehouse in the vicinity of the kingsroad.

Esmae drained yet another goblet and it was refilled in an instance by a little serving wench, whom Esmae quickly dismissed without a second glance. She brought it to her lips and took a lazy sip, sweeping the crowd over the rim. It didn't take long before her eyes were drawn to the lithe figure of Petyr Baelish. He was conversing with one of the lords, the same mildly contemplative and patronizing look on his vulpine face. It irritated Esmae how utterly _good_ he was at this game. Littlefinger was indeed a player to be feared. Even her mother was somewhat wary of the man and his uncanny ability to bring about the most gainful chaos. Esmae wouldn't put killing Jon Arryn past him, but Sabina's assurance was not proof enough. She needed to understand _why_ he would want to do such a thing to a man who had been nothing but kind to him.

With a dejected sigh, Esmae picked up a honeyed snail from her plate and brought the fork to her eyes to give the dish a pondering look. What on earth was that? Why in the seven hells were they served this?

"Please do put a stop to this fun Esmae, it is positively outrageous how much of it you're having," a mocking voice droned from her right before Lord Renly plumped into the chair next to her.

"Won't your rose wither without you?" Esmae retorted and dropped the fork back on the plate. It landed with a loud clatter and drew the attention of some guests sitting nearby, but Esmae paid no heed. She took another sip of wine instead.

Renly was watching her closely, eyes lit with amusement, "How many of those have you had?" he wondered.

"Not enough, clearly," she muttered, eyes fixed on Littlefinger again. After a certain amount of wine Esmae's discretion was not as striking, and for this reason, Renly easily followed her gaze.

"You must be jesting, Esmae," he said, stunned or angry, she couldn't tell.

"No, in truth I do believe I haven't had enough —"

"You know that is not what I mean," he _was_ angry, that much was clear from the heaviness of his usually breezy tone.

"I'm just _looking_ at him," she deadpanned.

Renly let out a tiny sceptical laugh, "Oh really?"

"He is quite handsome," Esmae shrugged and sipped from the goblet.

He contemplated her words for a moment before relenting, "I shall agree with you on that, but fifty golden dragons says this is not why you're staring at him with such conspicuous ferociousness."

"Leave the betting for tomorrow, uncle."

"You should be —"

"No!" the king's voice thundered, making every conversation cease in an instant. Esmae and Renly shared the same unsurprised look and turned to the high dais where Robert sat beside Cersei. His face was red with anger and drink as he rose from his seat, reeling, "You do not tell me what to do, woman! I am the king here, do you understand?" he screamed, "I rule here, and if I say I will fight tomorrow, I goddamn will!"

"Seven hells," Esmae sighed. The rustling of her mother's skirts as she lifted from her place and stormed off with cool dignity seemed to be the only sound in the utter silence surrounding them.

"He's just drunk," Renly said, though quite unconvincingly, "He will come to his senses in the morn."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Esmae muttered.

Jaime stood behind the king, his face solemn and unwavering, but on the inside, he was raging. Cersei's twin never took Robert's slights to her honour lightly, and Esmae knew it took a lot of him to stay silent. Jaime put a hand on the king's shoulder to calm him, but Robert shoved him away harshly. Unable to maintain his footing, Jaime stumbled and fell, which made the king roar with laughter, "The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer. Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!"

But right now it was he who could barely stand, reeling from all the wine he had guzzled. Esmae let out a heavy sigh at the degrading scene and watched Jaime rise from the ground, a grimace on her face. The Young Lion was fuming with anger.

"As you say, Your Grace," he seethed.

Next to her Renly stood up and came forward, a cheery smile on his handsome face, "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet."

That scene put a fast end to the feast. Benches grew empty as the folk began to retreat to their pavilions for the night. Renly had left as well, and in quite a hurry at that, which made Esmae think that he would surely spend the night in a bed of wild roses.

Surrounded by deserted tables and the ghost of a festive mood lingering in the summer air, Esmae finished the rest of the drink and rose from her seat. Her head felt a bit dizzy, but she brushed off the uneasy feeling and made for the castle. She could feel Ser Oakheart hovering over her and turned around to tell him off when she noticed Sansa Stark leave with the Hound. Her eyes then flashed to Joffrey, who swanned away with a smug look on his princely face.

Feeling suddenly overcome with righteousness, curtesy of one too many goblets of summerwine and boredom, Esmae strode up to her brother with a surprising resolution. Joffrey's beady green eyes widened at the sight of her, his thin lips curling in disgust.

"What do you think you're doing?" Esmae demanded, hands moulding to her hips.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes, "Have you completely drunk yourself into stupidity?" he snarked and said to Ser Oakheart, "Escort the princess to the castle. She is clearly unwell."

Esmae sent the Kingsguard a look that did well to cease any further action and redirected her wrath on the person who was most deserving of it, "How is your hand, Joffrey?"

"Still healing," he replied. Esmae's eyes flickered to the silken bandages that covered his well-deserved injury.

"Good, that's good," she nodded absently and took a step closer. Joffrey stiffened, "Now let me impart some wisdom upon your princely grace. This girl is to be your wife and your future queen, and you shall treat her as such. You may not love her, Gods know she will learn to hate you soon enough, but you _will_ respect her. She is Eddard Stark's daughter, _you idiot_, what do you think he would do if Lady Sansa were raped by one of the knights?" Esmae asked him but Joffrey only stared at her with disgust and pompous defiance, "She is not a kitchen girl for you to sneer at nor an animal to torment for your sick pleasure," she whispered dangerously, "And if I hear that you touched her or sent her off with that drunken dog again, you're going to have to worry about more than a couple of scratches on your hand."

Joffrey was positively fuming with anger, his cheeks flushed, "How dare you speak to me like that, you useless whore?" he spat.

"Oh, darling brother, whores are not useless. Otherwise, all the brothels in King's Landing would've gone out of business really fast. But I don't suppose you've felt a woman's touch before," she told him in a voice sweet and viscous as honey, "Let us go, Ser Oakhear. The prince is right, I am feeling quite unwell, " she said to the stout Kingsguard who nodded curtly at her command, "Goodnight to you, sweet brother."

Her heart was thumping hard in her chest.

* * *

Tournaments were boresome, indeed, but there was an undeniable perk to the chaos that they inevitable brought — it was easy to get swallowed by the crowd.

Now that Esmae had performed her royal duty and sat through the jousts the day before, she could be excused from such responsibility and thus was free to roam the streets King's Landing without the risk of someone noticing her absence.

The guards were all concentrated near the jousting field, close to the king, and the Red Keep was all but deserted. Esmae had easily left it in a litter under the pretence of going to see the last matches, but as soon as she was dropped at the jousting field, the princess sneaked off. With a blue cloak thrown over her shoulders, Esmae made fore the Street of Steel to visit the shop of the praised Tobho Mott. She wouldn't know a thing about the master were it not for Fenwick who in the many feats of babbling shared his dream to one day commission a sword made by the famed armourer.

The streets were swarmed with people. Esmae had never seen anything like it: vendors yelling out high praise for their goods to attract more customers, scrawny urchins hungry for a meal and hanging around taverns and inns in the hope of getting a piece of bread or a hot bawl of brown. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself and made her way through the throng of smallfolk, barely stifling the urge to cover her face and shield it from the heinous smell of the city streets. The skirts of her light blue dress were already daggled with mud, and she could feel it sipping though her shoes of delicate silk.

Maybe it _was_ a bad idea. Leaving the castle with no guards and no one knowing of her whereabouts — that was certainly dangerous. The city was no place for a highborn lady and although Esmae didn't think herself helpless, she relented that when it came to leering men, she was at a certain physical disadvantage.

The Street of Steel was a slightly better sight, but only slightly. There were many knights and squires running on their errands, and Esmae felt a little safer knowing that was any harm to come to her, any of them would not waste time in coming to her rescue. At least she hoped that they were knights not in name only. It was unlikely, however, for the age of gallantry was way behind them, and now every halfwit in shiny armour was a gallant Ser.

Finding Tobho Mott's shop didn't present a big challenge — it was grander than any building on the street. If not for its size, then the two stone knights armoured in red suits of armour in the shape of a griffon and a unicorn at the very entrance surely made it conspicuous.

It was a mistake to come here in person.

But Esmae wouldn't trust anyone else with it. Much less Fenwick, who would surely stumble over every word before making out anything coherent or…yes, Fenwick was all she had, and he couldn't be trusted with something so fragile and potentially explosive.

The double doors of the shop were open when she approached it with tentative steps, cranking her neck a little to see what was going on inside. Even at a distance, Esmae could feel the scorching heat coming off the steel in the forges and the vile smell of smoke and sulfur. She came a little closer and still there wasn't a man in sight; the shop seemed empty.

_This can't be right. _

Determined, Esmae walked inside the shop and felt a rush of steaming air that made her face flush in an instant. She felt impossibly hot with a hood on her head, and so she took it off and walked further, looking around the shop. There were ready-forged blades and swords hanging on the walls, but Esmae reckoned they were rather dull in comparison to the ones commissioned by the knights and the like. Fenwick had once told her that master Mott was one of only a few armourers who were able to work Valyrian steel. She ran her finger down one of the blades, marvelling at the smoothness of the cold still —

"What do you think you're doing?"

Startled, Esmae instantly pulled her hand away and did it so abruptly that she cut her finger. She let out a hiss and turned to the rear door of the shop. There stood a petite young girl, with downy yellow hear and big blue eyes that were now levelling Esmae with a ridiculously stern look for such a small thing.

"I apologize, I shouldn't have touched anything without permission."

"What's your business here?" the girl wondered suspiciously, "The master don't need no serving girl no more."

Esmae almost laughed. _A serving girl, of course. Renly would've been quite happy to see that_.

"No-no I'm not seeking employment," she assured her instead, "In fact, I am here _to employ_ your master."

The serving girl raised her brow sceptically, "You don't say."

"Yes, I wish to commission a blade."

"Do you now?"

"I've got money."

That seemed to catch her attention but clearly wasn't enough to persuade her, "Master Mott is out, dunno when he'll come back," the girl told her with a flippant shrug, "maybe minutes, maybe hours — you never know with him. _An artist_, that man is," there was a pinch of mockery to her half-hearted praise.

Esmae was getting annoyed. She hadn't gone through all that trouble to get here only to find out that the gods damned armourer was out day-drinking.

"What about his apprentice?"

Lorna narrowed her eyes at her, "Gendry? What do you — "

"Hey Lorna, d'you know if Mott got that new anvil? The one in the back's been givin' us trouble all week, I near chopped off my bloody hand off…"

Esmae's eyes shifted to the boy who had just come through the rear door. He was wearing a leather jerkin with nothing underneath but a perfect display of his muscled arms that were shiny with sweat. The girl, Lorna, appeared to be very aware of his presence, her face instantly softening, "He's still out," she told him.

The boy looked at the serving girl, then at Esmae in obvious confusion. He was young, probably around her age, with eyes blue and bright as ice. There was something about them that stung with familiarity as if there was an image in the back of her mind that Esmae felt but couldn't quite conjure. It was a peculiar feeling.

"Hey Gendry, this lady right here's been asking about you," Lorna jerked her head in Esmae's direction.

_So that's the apprentice._

The boy looked her over, eyes wide with confusion, "Me?"

"I've heard you're quite a skilful armourer," Esmae told him.

Gendry shuffled uncomfortably and pushed his sweat-soaked hair away from his face, "Where'd you hear that?"

"From Lord Stark," Esmae was walking on ice as thin as Myrish silk and already she could hear it give a crack. It was a risky move of a person desperate for information enough to give away some of her own.

"Listen, I don't need no trouble," Gendry said defensively.

"What do you mean?"

"All these lords 'been coming 'round lately, asking questions, sticking their nose where it don't belong —"

"Lorna," Gendry hissed sending her a pointed look.

"What?" she raised her brows at him, "They have, haven't they?"

"What sort of questions?" Esmae asked.

Lorna shot her a disdainful glare, "And who are you supposed to be, _milady_?"

Esmae decidedly ignored the serving girl who was quickly arousing her very Baratheon fury and turned all her attention on Gendry. He was looking at her warily, "You are in no trouble, I promise. But I need you to tell me why Lord Stark came by the shop," Esmae was saying slowly, hoping that it would be enough to persuade him. She paused before uttering the next words, "And why Lord Arryn had."

Gendry watched her carefully, and Esmae felt another pang of recognition. She couldn't put a finger on it, but something in the boy seemed painfully familiar: the way his eyes studied her with a pinch of suspicion and wariness, storms brewing behind them.

"Don't tell her nothing, Gendry."

But Gendry didn't seem to acknowledge her words as he kept thinking over what Esmae had said to him, unable to make a decision.

"The Stark man just wanted to know what the other one had talked to me about," he said hesitantly, "That first one seemed a bit off, asked me about my work, at first, if I was being treated well, if I liked it here, that sort of stuff. But then he started asking strange questions about my mother and what she was like."

Esmae frowned, "Your mother?"

"Gendry, shut up —"

"I told Stark what I had told that Arryn man," Gendry scratched his head, "That she died when I was little, so I barely remember her now. Only that she had pretty yellow hair and that she sang to me at night."

"But there was another man with him, wasn't there?"

"Aye, the bold one. But he didn't ask nothing, just glared at me, like I was some raper who done for his daughter."

Esmae thought that it was quite an apt description of Stannis that Renly would've no doubt appreciated.

"Got enough?" Lorna glared at her, "now run off to your castle, milady, and leave him be."

Esmae ignored her barking, "I thank you for your help, Gendry," she told the boy with a grateful smiled. He gave a hesitant nod in return and made to leave the shop.

"Gendry."

He stopped, "Yes, milady?"

"I do need a blade."

There was a flicker of interest in Gendry's eyes, "What kind of blade d'you want?"

"A light one," Esmae told him, "one that would be easy to hide and carry around."

"And why would a lady need a blade?"

Esmae supposed it was good that no one recognized her. And although being mistaken for a commoner would've been much more preferable, she could make do with the title of a highborn lady. There were plenty of those, anyway.

"Titles and gold can only protect you from so so many people," she told him and found that it wasn't really a complete lie.

Gendry watched her for a long while, and Esmae withstood his scrutiny without losing the resolve in her eyes.

"Alright," he finally said, "I'll make you something."

* * *

Upon walking back into the Red Keep, Esmae was quickly approached by one of her mother's handmaidens. It appeared that the queen wished to see Esmae in her chambers, and judging by the frightened look in the girl's eyes, Cersei had been waiting for her arrival for quite some time.

But Esmae couldn't very well saunter into the queen's chambers wearing the mud-covered dress she had on, and so she had taken her time changing into a more presentable confection, one of deep red that would do well to please her mother.

A Kingsguard standing outside the queen's apartments opened the doors for Esmae and stepped away to let her pass. The rooms were engulfed in a golden light coming from the broad terrace where Esmae spotted her mother, standing at the railing with a goblet of wine in her had. The view opening from the Red Keep that set atop Aegon's Hill was decidedly spectacular.

The whole city was spread at its foot, a sea of red roofs and swarms of people that melted into an azure stretch of the Narrow Sea that glistened in the unforgiving southorn sun. Cersei was watching the breathtaking scenery, golden hair cascading down her back in waves looking like they were made of sunlight itself. As a child, Esmae would find herself fascinated by the yellow locks of her mother and as she grew up, the fascination turned into envy, for hers were dark and dull, while even Joffrey had been kissed by the sun. He would tell her that her hair looked dirty, as though she had got mud all over it, and Esmae would run away crying, back when she still gave a care.

"You wished to see me, mother?"

Cersei didn't turn around instantly. No, she always took her time as if to show that she did you a grand favour by allowing you to be in her company. At last, she faced Esmae with a lazy smile on her lips. She was sufficiently drunk for the evening, "Oh, wonderful, you came," Cersei drawled, each words dripping with sarcasm, and sauntered to the table, "We shall have a talk," she gestured to the seat on the opposite side of it.

Esmae knew that whatever her mother wanted to speak to her about didn't bode well at all. It never did when Cersei decided to impart some wisdom on her elder daughter. She remembered one of those conversations particularly well. "_You should protect your brother, Esmae. One day he will bring our House the glory it deserves and when he sits on the iron throne, you had better be by his side_" she told her after Esmae'd had a particularly nasty fight with Joffrey that ended in him almost fracturing his arm. It hadn't been her fault, of course, for it was he who wanted to hit Esmae but wasn't quick enough and slipped, much to her joy. It was exactly how Septa Eglantine found them: Joffrey lying on the floor in tears and Esmae doubling down in laughter over his suffering frame.

"Did you enjoy the tournament?" Cersei eased herself into the armchair with the grace of a lithe lioness.

"Immensely," Esmae replied, "your presence was sorely missed, mother."

"I'm sure it was, sweetling," Cersei smiled and brought the goblet to her lips, "But I couldn't bear watching your father joust. It was a great relief to hear that he had come to his senses at last."

Esmae thought back to the previous evening that was ended rather abruptly after the scene Robert had made. Degrading as it had been, it wasn't, however, new. Such bursts of drunken anger were a common occurrence for the king, and his wife was often the cause of them. Robert took to shame Cersei in public quite frequently, whether with his actions, by feeling up every handmaiden and serving girl, or with his words when he would get so drunk he'd forget whose gold paid for the whores he fucked and the wine he guzzled.

Esmae admired her mother for the cold grace with which she endured such blatant disrespect. She wondered, however, if there would ever be the point when her resolve crumbled, letting all the pent up frustration loose.

"When we were children, your uncle Jaime and I looked so much alike, even our father couldn't tell us apart.

So I never understand why they treated us differently," Cersei was saying, a ponderous look on her face, "Why Jaime was taught to fight with sword and lance and I was taught to smile prettily and curtsey and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock and I was sold to some stranger like a horse to be ridden whenever he desired."

"But I was happy then, for I was to marry a king. She told me I would," Cersei said wistfully, her eyes glazed from the wine, "first it was Rhaegar, then Robert — they were mere names attached to the title, and the title was all that mattered," she smiled in a strange, deranged way and took a sip of wine, "But they never wanted me, I knew that. It was my father's gold they were after, yet I wanted to become queen badly enough to stay blind to that. _He would learn to love me_, I thought. How could he not? I was young and I was beautiful," the same smile kept playing on her wine-stained lips, "But for everything that I was, I would never be _her_."

Esmae stayed silent, not quite knowing what to say and whether she should say anything at all. And so she just listened, preparing herself for whatever that tale was leading up to.

"Her who is rotting away in the snows while I am queen. Just as she told me I would be," Cersei said slowly, almost as an afterthought. After a moment of melancholic silence, she fixed her eyes back on Esmae, "I was your age when I did my duty to my family and married Robert. The time has come you have fulfilled yours."

It wasn't at all peculiar that Esmae's first urge was to laugh. For she should've expected nothing less upon entering her mother's chambers. She had no illusions about her future, none at all. Esmae knew her fate and needed no foretelling, but she rather hoped that it wasn't quite as impending.

"Who do you have in mind, mother?" she wondered, voice strained, though perfectly polite. Cersei watched her closely, and Esmae didn't want to let any emotion slip past her impeccable façade.

"Willas Tyrell," Cersei told her simply, fingers circling the rim of the goblet.

Esmae startled despite her resolve to stay unfazed, "The cripple?"

"He's perfectly capable of producing an heir."

"But —"

"Your grandfather thinks it a fine match," the way Cersei said it made Esmae think that she didn't share the same opinion.

"And what of father?" she quirked a brow, "Does _he_ find it as fine a match?"

Her mother's eyes flashed with something Esmae failed to recognized, "He will."

She nodded stupidly, watching Cersei with suspicious intent, "What if I refuse?"

"You may," the queen allowed ominously, "But allow me to share some womanly wisdom with you, sweetling," Cersei refilled her goblet and poured some wine for Esmae as well.

_Here it goes_, Esmae thought and smiled at her mother as she accepted the drink. She took a generous sip to brace herself.

"Any choice you may think you have is naught but a hoax. We are taught to believe that we are mighty, but our power goes as far as it's allowed to stretch. We live in our pretty little gilded cages, some bigger than others, but traps nonetheless. We are hardly different from common whores, only much more expensive."

Esmae felt struck when Cersei's eyes bore into hers. It was like staring straight into a looking glass and seeing your reflection, only it was…wrong. Were her eyes as angry? Was her sneer as contemptuous?

Cersei sighed and drank some more wine, "If you want a choice in this world, you ought to fight for it," she told her, "But seeing as fighting is something that is exclusive to men, we have to devise our own weapons, have we not? We use tears to soften a man's heart and smiles to seem like we care. But nothing works quite like the hidden warmth between our legs," the queen said with a derisive smile, "Learn how to use it."

* * *

**A/N:** _The shit's going down. _


	8. Lion and the Lamb

**A/N:** _Aaaand I'm back with another chapter. Wow, I'm like so proud of myself, you have no idea. Let's hope I'll manage to keep this up, yeah?_

_Major thank you guys for all your sweet comments and feedback! I'm so happy to hear that you like this story and Esmae, whom I grew to adore dearly. Which is why she will suffer in the coming chapters, of course...__Oh man, will it be Willas though? I wouldn't be so sure..._

_I really hope I will surprise you with the plot development. I'm pretty sure you're going to be surprised, though, so brace yourselves guys!_

* * *

Eddard Stark wished to see her.

Esmae was approached by the captain of his guards, the quiet Jory Cassel, who had dutifully relayed Lord Stark's short massage to the princess and kindly accompanied her to the Hand's Tower. Of course, Esmae was rather puzzled by the sudden call, but let none of the surprise show, allowing only a curt nod and following the obedient guard to his master in silence.

Lord Stark was sitting behind his table, hovering over what looked like a very cumbersome piece of reading when the door to his solar opened with a creak.

"Her Grace, the princess," Jory announced as Esmae walked in, her face perfectly guileless.

Eddard's head snapped up at the sound. He closed the thick tome and rose from his chair to greet her, "Your Grace," he nodded and said to the guard, "Thank you, Jory. You may leave us."

The man made a bow and walked out, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

"Lord Stark," Esmae intoned and sauntered into the solar as if it were her own, "And so we talk again."

The south did not become Eddard Stark. He looked as out of place here as the poor northern beast Esmae had saved from death some months before. The man in front of her was worn out, his face bearing an unhealthy ashy color, eyes tired and bloodshot. Eddard looked stern, more so than usual, which led Esmae to believe that whatever she had been called here for, didn't bode well. And somehow she didn't need to guess why.

"We do," he said gruffly, "Although much has changed since the last time we spoke."

Esmae quirked an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"What can you tell me about the day Lord Arryn died?" she was mildly taken aback by the straightforwardness of the question. It was rather bold, she'd give him that.

"Not much, seeing as I was halfway to Casterly Rock when the news had reached us," Esmae replied nonchalantly and watched as Eddard's jaw tightened, his face ponderous, "Why, Lord Stark? Am I a suspect in your little investigation? Don't look quite so surprised," she told him with a saccharine smile, "I am sure our mutual friend has told you all of my pastimes as well. For someone who is hailed as the keeper of secrets, Lord Varys does a rather poor job at it. Much like you at trying to be discreet," Esmae chuckled, ignorant to the effect her words had on Lord Stark. Clearly, he had imagined this conversation going in a very different direction.

At last, he regained his composure, "What is it that you're trying to achieve, Your Grace?"

"It gets excruciatingly boring within these walls, Lord Stark," she told him airily, "I occupy myself in whatever way I can."

Esmae let her eyes run over the leather cover of the book. It was impossible to decipher anything from such a distance, however. And so she wandered closer to the table to make out the golden imprint "_The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children" by Grand Master Malleon_. She could feel her brows fly up in fascination.

"It is no child's play," Eddard's warning snapped Esmae out of her thoughts.

She looked up at him, fires dancing in the pits of her emerald orbs, "And I am no child, my lord."

"Child or not, you are a princess and should not involve yourself in any such matters. I had half a mind to bring this straight to the king."

"Why didn't you then?" Esmae wondered, noticeably less confident than before.

Eddard gave her a long, probing look, "You have no idea what kind of danger you're putting yourself into," he finally said, ignoring the last question.

"Oh, but I _do_. You, on the other hand, are treading on very thin ice, my lord."

His face hardened, eyes a color of steel and just as cold and unyielding, "Do you presume to threaten me, girl?"

"I do not presume anything, Lord Stark," Esmae met his glare head on, "In fact, I might just be the only person in this damnable castle who does not wish to see your head on a spike. Apart from the king, of course, but he is safely tucked away in the cot of sweet insolence."

"And why is that?"

"Because, Lord Stark, I do not care enough to wish on your demise. Nor do I care enough to save you from it. But I'll tell you this," she looked directly into his wary face, "The only way to survive in this place is by fear of one's own shadow. Only fools believe themselves safe, and are thus the first to fall to their own stupidity. Lord Arryn knew that very well but chose to ignore it. You, my lord, are making the same mistake which will inevitably lead you to the same fate."

His eyes narrowed, "What do you know of Lord Arryn's fate?"

Esmae contemplated giving him an answer. Eddard Stark looked a man desperate and perhaps she could ease his thirst for the truth, but something within her chose not to act on this urge. Instead Esmae smiled at him absently, as if something else entirely was occupying her twisted mind, and dropped her eyes to the book, "That is quite a ponderous read," she then raised them to see Eddard Stark watching her closely, face pained with apprehension, "Is it any good?"

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a sudden shriek that pierced through the silence, "Let me go!"

The door of the solar was suddenly opened and in walked two Stark guards, a little boy fallowing behind with a grim, almost annoyed look on his sooted face.

"Arya," Lord Stark breathed his relief as the little boy ran into his arms, "Where did you find her?"

"She found us, she did," the fat one laughed.

"The little lady 'been running 'bout the city, my lord," the other one reported, "The gold cloaks took her for a beggar, wouldn't let her in until Jory came down," Eddard sent a stern look his daughter's way but Arya only shrugged.

Esmae watched the scene with amusement, a little smile playing on her lips as Eddard Stark shook his head in exhaustion, "Thank you Harwin, Tomard, you may go."

"What is she doing here?" Arya snapped as soon as the guards were sent away. Her bright grey eyes shone through the dirt on her face as she stared at Esmae in irritation.

"Arya, it is no way to talk to a princess — "

"It is quite alright, Lord Stark," Esmae told him placidly, "Your daughter is right, my business here is done."

She walked to the door, skirts of deep purple flowing behind her as she did.

"Your Grace," Eddard said, and she stopped to look at him, "Have a good evening."

A smile formed on Esmae's lips at the hidden meaning of the valediction, "You as well, my lord."

As she was walking away from the solar, she heard shouting coming from the other side of the door and a little girl's pleading voice "_But they were talking about _killing_ you, father!_"

The game had just begun.

* * *

Esmae didn't condone eavesdropping. Not only was the demeaning act highly immoral, but it was also horrendously boring, time wasted on dull conversations that more often than not had little to do with her business. On some occasions, however, Esmae was quite willing to forsake all these reasons and allow herself to happen upon a discussion of a particular fascination.

That is to say, she had accidentally listened in on the latest small council meeting and was still in a state of shock from what she had heard. Daenerys Targaryen, one of the last surviving descendants of the great dragons, was with child and her father had commanded to have her killed. To have her _poisoned_.

Esmae was no naive fool and understood what danger the possible Targaryen offspring could present — two of them was already too many where the king was concerned, and another one could mean a true rebirth of the ancient dynasty. Not to say that the girl's brother, Viserys, was already gathering forces to invade Westeros and take all the Seven Kingdoms by storm, with a horde of Dothraki screamers and his little sister as their _khaleesi_. Uncle Tyrion had once told Esmae about the barbarian horse lords and their savage ways, and she was equal parts captivated and disgusted by the stories of their cruelty and ferociousness.

But killing an innocent child in their mother's womb, all because of her father's ridiculous grudge against the Targaryens? They were fools, all of them but Eddard Stark, who was a fool in his own right but for completely different reasons. How could they fail to consider the very obvious repercussions of such a decision? The Dothraki may be reluctant to invade right now but no sea will hold back the savage _khal_ and his horde when they murder his wife and the heir that quickens within her.

And Renly, Gods was she furious with him. How could he be so flippant about such matters? _The girl must be killed_, he ruled and then went to fuck Loras Tyrell. _What a complete imbecile_, Esmae thought with an exasperated sigh and took a sip of wine.

She was standing on the balcony, resting against the hot stone of the railing, the warmth of the morning sun caressing her skin. The rest was very much needed after the horrors of the small council meeting, which Esmae had left in a hurry when she heard Lord Stark's heavy steps.

Eddard Stark — the biggest, noblest fool of them all. She had never heard anyone speak to her father in such a manner before, anyone who wished to keep their head on the shoulders, at least, and that seemed to be in fashion these days. "_Or I swear I'll have your head on a spike_" Robert had bellowed in a feat of rage. Esmae couldn't help but think that, perhaps, he had once made the same threat to Lord Arryn.

A sudden knock at the door haled her away from the troubling thoughts. Esmae gave her permission to enter and took another sip from the goblet, eyes still trained on the blue stretch of the sea on the horizon.

"Your Grace?"

"Ah, Lady Melysa. Come join me," Esmae stepped away from the railing and walked towards the table where she eased herself into a chair, "Well don't just stand there and tremble. _Sit_."

Lady Melysa hesitantly took a place opposite the princess. She was sitting straight and tense like a harp's string, nearly on the very edge of the chair and Esmae rolled her eyes at that. She reached for the tray of ripe fruit and popped one of the grapes into her mouth.

"I take it you have something to tell me," Esmae prompted after quite some time of silence.

"Oh yes, yes I-I…have, indeed."

"Should I guess?"

Lady Melysa blushed profusely. Whatever she had come here to say must've been quite scandalous, then.

"It's news from Lord Fenwick," she stammered.

_Lord Fenwick, _Esmae snorted inwardly. Sometimes she forgot the boy had a title.

"He asked me to give you his apologies, Your Grace. Lord Fenwick would've approached you in person but found himself quite occupied with Ser Jaime's errands and so he felt it appropriate to send me. With a…oh, wait a minute, " Lady Melysa stopped the breathless blabbering and fumbled in her skirts. She then eased out a piece of parchment and handed it to the princess, "Lord Fenwick told me to pass you this".

**_She knows more but won't tell. Demands to meet you in person. Sisters' crossing. Morrow's morn._**

Esmae ran her eyes over the words again and quickly rose from her seat, clutching the note in her hand, "The bloody whore," she muttered and entered the rooms. Under the wary eyes of Lady Melysa, Esmae picked up a lit candle and brought the flame to the note, watching the burning tongues turn the parchment into ashes.

* * *

Esmae considered walks in the gardens with her ladies as a sort of necessary torture. The torture she got used to with years and learned to simply tune out and supply the necessary smiles, giggles and other signs of involvement in the conversation. This torture was familiar and Esmae didn't think it could get worse.

She had never been so wrong and realized her mistakes the day Sansa Stark joined their little party. Lady Sansa looked a beauty in a dress of light blue that brought out her eyes, with fiery red hair styled in a new, southorn fashion. If only she wasn't so foolishly naive.

At first, her presence was barely noticeable. Lady Sansa was quiet as a mouse, listening to the ladies talk with eyes round from excitement and fascination as if it were the grandest mummers' show she had ever seen. But then one of the ladies made a grave mistake of asking Sansa about Joffrey, and Esmae thought she would truly scream of despair.

Esmae didn't hate Sansa Stark. She couldn't blame the girl for wanting to live her dream even if that dream was as feeble as Joffrey's weaselly charm. It seemed fascinating to Esmae how Lady Sansa managed to stay perfectly oblivious to his cruelty, even after he had sent her off accompanied by a drunk, dangerous man that she was so clearly afraid of. Sansa was no wolf but a lamb, and lamb would never survive a lion.

Lord Stark's scandalous resignation brought an idea to Esmae's mind. Surely, after such a public display of disobedience that was nothing if not a slight to the king's honour and authority, Robert would want to cut any ties with the Starks. It wouldn't do to favour the daughter of a man who so publicly shamed the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

With that thought and an unwavering determination, Esmae made for her father's solar.

Ser Barristan stood sentry at the door, his solemn face breaking into a soft smile when he saw her approach, "Your Grace," he bowed his head in greeting.

"Ser Barristan," Esmae smiled warmly at the old man, "Is the king in?"

"He is, Your Grace."

He held the door open for her and Esmae walked in, feeling only slightly uneasy. She seldom paid visits to her father, mostly because there was little they had to talk about. The only conversations they shared were at dinner and very rarely at breakfast, for the king liked to sleep in.

Robert was slumped in a chair by the table, with a goblet of wine in hand, and for a second Esmae regretted coming to him. But when the king looked up from the papers scattered on the table, she noticed that he was surprisingly sober.

"Ah my eldest child," Robert exclaimed, "Gods but do you look like your mother. Got my hair though, that you do," he chuckled, "Good, that's good. Wouldn't do to see any more golden-haired Lannister cubs pissing in every corner of the castle".

Esmae met the crude comments with a tight smile and sat down in a chair opposite the king. The last small council meeting left her quite cross with Robert, and Esmae could feel the anger stir within her at the sight of him.

"Now say what you came here to say, girl," he grunted, "I assume it is not to share a talk with your old father?"

"It is not," Esmae said primly. Bracing herself, she ventured, "It is about Sansa Stark."

Robert regarded her with curiosity, "What about her?" he asked, intrigued enough to appear serious but not quite to abandon the wine.

"Do you think her a suitable match for Joffrey still, now that Lord Stark has disgraced you so by resigning?"

His face grew dark, "Watch your mouth girl," the king snapped, "Eddard Stark is a man of honour. Hand or not, his daughter is a fine match for your brother."

_Yes, but is he a fine match for _her_?_

Esmae always knew that the Starks held a special place in the king's heart. Mostly because of the love Robert bore the infamous Northern beauty Lyanna Stark, Eddard's late sister, for whom he had started an entire rebellion. The North had helped Robert win the crown and Eddard Stark stood loyally by him while Robert killed his way to the Iron throne. The ghosts of the rebellion were lingering in their lives still, graves of the loved one yet fresh and the Targaryen blood barely dried up in the stone cracks of the throne room. They were never to be forgotten. And Robert never let himself forget.

Esmae had long ago realized that none of them, not she or little Tommen, had ever had a true chance at his love, for it had all been wasted on the woman who had been whisked away by another. No one really knew what happened: the story was that Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped Lyanna Stark and raped her, leaving the poor girl to die, but Esmae never quite believed that.

In her mind, they loved each other, with a love that was selfish and destructive, the kind that made you forget yourself and forsake your honour. The love that had thrown the entire realm into chaos and soaked the Westerosi soil in the blood of innocents.

The love that haunted Robert Baratheon still, for he couldn't bear that it didn't belong to him.

"You made Eddard Stark your Hand and gave his daughter to the Crown Prince. How far do the Starks' Northern ambitious go, father? You can't keep feeding the wolves, not when there is the Reach to think about, not to say Dorne — "

"Quiet, girl!" Robert bellowed, "Seven hells, you are too like your mother for your own good. I am the king, Gods damn it, and I do as I please, do you understand? It is not for a little girl to give me counsel or to question my decisions. The Stark girl's betrothal to your brother will not be questioned, nor will her father's loyalty".

Esmae might have taken after her mother in many ways, but being near Robert brought upon the Baratheon temper she had inherited from him, "Your obsession is becoming ridiculous," she muttered, fuming with anger.

His blue eyes darkened, "Speak up, child," Robert growled.

"Sansa Stark is not Lyanna, father, and Joffrey is not you," she told him coolly, "But you are too obsessed with the idea of uniting our two Houses to see that."

Esmae could see that her father was restraining himself. Had it been Cersei, he would've long lost his temper, "Do not speak of the things you don't understand, child," the king warned.

"But I do understand, father," Esmae said, sounding more collected than she felt, "Lyanna Stark was said to be a fierce she-wolf and yet look at Sansa — the girl has as little North in her as her lady mother. And Joffrey…Well," she let out a mirthless laugh, "Joffrey is more lion than he is a stag and he will simply tear her to pieces. You know it, I know you do," Esmae noticed doubt etching on her father's face, "Will he make a fine husband? A fine _king_?"

"He is a boy," Robert told her, albeit with little conviction.

"A _cruel_ boy who is going to grow into a _merciless_ man —"

"And who should rule in his stead?" the king suddenly asked, and Esmae felt herself cower at the question, "You, girl?"

She said nothing.

"Do you think yourself better suited, is that it?"

Esmae almost winced at the barb, "I —"

"Your brother will be king," Robert cut her off, "And you'll do well to stand by him, as a good sister should. I will hear no more of this bloody nonsense," he muttered and reclined in his chair, "You should speak less, girl. That tongue of yours will get you into trouble yet. Now leave."

Esmae burned him with a seething glare, jaw clenched so tight she could hear her teeth grinding, "Yes, father," she greeted out and left his solar with quiet dignity. Ser Barristan gave the princess a worried look when she stepped out, shutting the door behind her, but Esmae quickly stormed off before he could say anything.

She could feel her impeccable composure melting from the flaming anger within her. How dare he humiliate her in such a way? How dare he mock her with such cruelty? A joke of a king, that's what he was. A prancing fool for the realm to laugh at. Esmae never wanted to be queen, never even dreamed of it but Gods knew even she could make a better ruler than Joffrey. The anger she felt consumed her, mixed with a crippling feeling of inadequacy and loneliness that brought tears to her eyes.

He had dismissed her like a servant girl.

Esmae stormed down the corridor to the royal chambers and was met with a hard wall of cold steel. She looked up and quickly cast her eyes down when she saw Jaime looking at her with amusement.

"Sorry, Ser Jaime," Esmae mumbled and made to leave, but he caught her gently her by the arm.

"Is everything alright?" the concern in Jaime's voice made it harder for her to hold back the prickling tears, "What happened?" he asked gently, green eyes clouded with worry.

"Everything is perfectly fine," told him in a cool, composed manner, "It appears your king is in need of more wine," she wrenched free from his grip and strode away, leaving Jaime completely befuddled.

* * *

Sneaking out of the castle was no mean feat. And if the dark embrace of the night allowed for a semblance of secrecy, the sun was not as lenient and presented no such opportunity. However, it didn't stop Esmae from devising an ingenious plan of escape, which included Lady Melysa and her unexpected talent for mummery.

Esmae was pleasantly surprised, if not entirely shocked by the ease with which the girl weaved lies about the princess, telling Septa Eglantine how very indisposed she felt and how she could barely lift her head from the pillow. The plump woman wasted no time in bringing the news to the queen and then the whole castle knew that the golden princess was trapped in confines of her featherbed, resting and not to be disturbed.

Nobody knew, however, that lying under the covers was Lady Melysa and that the princess herself had sneaked out of the room disguised as a handmaiden. Even Ser Oakheart who stood sentry at her door had been none the wiser.

Once she was out of the Holdfast, Esmae had little trouble navigating her way to the secret passage that led out of the Red Keep. And when she stepped out of the tunnels, Esmae halted, barely suppressing a gasp at the beautiful view that opened from the Hill of Rhaenys. It was only then that she realized that she had never before had a chance to enjoy it, for the shadows of the evenfall did well to hide the beautiful sights.

Esmae looked up at Aegon's Hill that seemed so far away, the Red Keep nestled atop it, mighty and majestic. At that moment it was easy to imagine dragons circling the hills in the blue sky, grand wings slicing through the air, throwing their imposing shadows over the waves of the Narrow Sea.

Collecting her skirts, she made her descent down the grassy slope, careful not to slip and tumble down. Esmae could see the broken dome of the cavernous Dragonstone as she walked past its foot, ignoring the chill that ran down her spine at the thought of it once being a den of dragons.

From there, she quickly made it to the Street of the Sisters that was swarmed with smallfolk. It seemed Esmae would never get quite used to seeing so many people disregarding each other's personal space in such a nonchalant manner. She craned her neck to see over the crowd but there was so sign of her companion. With a sigh of annoyance, Esmae forced her way through the mass of commoners and reached a clearing that resembled a small square.

"You blend in nicely, Your Grace," a mocking voice noted.

Esmae whipped around and was faced with Sabina's laughing onyx eyes. She wasn't wearing a disguise this time, her thick dark hair secured atop of her head with pins, some strands falling into her face in beautiful disarray. Clad in a tunic of soft burgundy silk that was laced with golden threads, Sabina looked more like a Myrish noblewoman rather than a whore.

"I could have you whipped for such insolence," Esmae told her casually, "Calling me in the light of day? Giving me ultimatums? I think you forget yourself."

Sabina didn't waver at the threat, "I think _you_ forget the kind of danger I'm putting myself into by only being here," she replied, her sweet voice contrasting with the stern look in her eyes, "Baelish has been watching me lately. I don't like it."

They were moving down west, approaching Flea Bottom and Esmae could already smell the unmistakable odour of the slums.

"Do you think he knows?"

"He definitely suspects. Which means he will soon figure it out."

"What are you going to do?"

"Why, I intend to leave," Sabina told her simply.

"Leave?" Esmae looked at her in surprise, "And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?"

She noticed a young girl standing in the alley with her breasts exposed for the world to see, and quickly averted her eyes.

"On a ship, of course."

Esmae's eyes then fell on a plump woman who was pressed against the wall of a shabby building, her skirts lifted and legs locked around the waist of a man who was…pounding into her. Esmae felt her face heat up. She had some knowledge of the ways man and woman lay together, but had never before seen the act itself and demonstrated quite so openly. Perplexed by the sight, Esmae took a better look around the street and noticed naked women on the balconies, clothed in nothing but thin silks, beckoning the hungry men who passed through. Melodies of pleasure could be heard coming from the alleys and the buildings.

"Where did you bring me?" Esmae demanded, her cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

Sabina laughed, "Where do you think?"

She was scandalized by the iniquitous Street of Silk. Esmae knew of it, of course, and how could she not with Tyrion as an uncle? But she couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of sordid things took place not only under the roofs of the countless brothels but without them as well.

They soon stopped near a building much grander and decidedly less vulgar than the other establishments on the street. In fact, it appeared to be a rather choice brothel, with ornate doors embellished with gilded vines and windows that were intact, something that was a luxury here.

"Before we come in, I have to ask you something," Sabina said with unexpected solemness, "I need more gold this time. Enough to buy a passage to Oldtown and then to Myr."

Esmae observed the girl closely but found nothing but determination and fear reflected in her eyes. Sabina had been a great source of information for the past two years, an invaluable ally, something that Esmae would never admit out loud, and losing her would be a great disadvantage. But if Lord Baelish had his suspicions, it was only a matter of time before he found them out, and there was no use for a dead informant.

"Why Oldtown?" was the only thing she asked.

If Sabina was surprised or relieved, she did well not to show it, "Baelish will know if I board a ship from the harbour."

"So be it," Esmae nodded, her voice solemn, "You should expect Fenwick come evenfall."

She could tell that gratitude didn't come easily to Sabina. Probably because there was little in her life to be grateful for, "Thank you, Your Grace," Sabina mumbled and then smiled, "I shall give him a proper farewell."

Esmae laughed, "One he will never forget, I'm sure."

Sabina explained that the brothel they were about to enter belonged to Chataya, a mesmerizing woman from the Summer Isles. It was an upscale establishment, favoured by many noblemen, that offered a wide variety of girls to cater for all tastes; virgins as well, if one was ready to empty their pockets.

They went inside and stopped in the common room filled with young ladies in thin linen shifts and silks, who were busy with their clients, dandling and giggling on their laps. Esmae wrinkled her nose at the thick, hot air of the room that smelled of sex and aroma oils, and was making her a little dizzy.

"Sabina," an elegant woman came in, her presence almost magnetic. She was tall and impressive, in a feathered gown of deep emerald that contrasted beautifully with her shining, dark skin. Her eyes were the colour of melting embers, soft and velvety as they shifted to Esmae, "And who is that?"

"Melysa," Esmae told her, "Her Grace the Princess' handmaiden."

Chataya regarded her with an ominous smile for a moment, "Of course," she said, perfectly unconvinced by the feeble lie.

"We wish to see the babe, Chataya," Sabina stepped forward, "the one you told me about."

Esmae frowned._ The babe?_

"Follow me," Chataya beckoned and led them through the common room and up to the second floor. There, in one of the smaller chambers, stood a young woman with a bundle in her arms. Esmae stared at the girl and then looked at Sabina, who appeared to be as lost as she was.

"This is Mhaegen," Chataya told them and the girl looked up, eyes round with fear. Gods, she was but a child, possibly younger than the majority, "It is fine, they mean no harm. Tell them about the lords that came to see you."

Mhaegen clutched the babe tighter and regarded Esmae and Sabina with distrust.

"We are here on Lord Arryn's orders," Esmae told her, hoping that it would lower her guard. And it did — the girl's freckled face brightened up.

"Did he talk to the king?" she asked, her voice filled with hope.

"I'm afraid he passed before he had the chance," Esmae said, treading blindly on the unknown ground.

Mhaegen's face fell, "Oh…"

"But I could do it _for_ him," Esmae offered helpfully.

The girl cooed at the child who had woken up from its slumber, "She looks just like him, don't she? Got her father's hair and his eyes…"

Esmae instantly tensed. Sure, she had prepared herself for the worst but truly hoped to be mistaken. That the babe in the girl's arms was not one of her father's by-blows. And yet, she appeared to be irritatingly right.

"What's her name?" Esmae asked in a strained voice that was thick with emotion.

"Barra," Mhaegen stroked the child's dark hair. Her father's hair, "I wish the king could see how beautiful she is, truly. Will you tell him that, milady?"

Esmae couldn't tear her eyes away from the babe. She looked so peaceful, so innocent and so unsuspecting of the hardships of life. She would never know her father and would probably grow to become a whore like her mother if she survived. And Mhaegen, the poor, naive girl. It was a mercy that she knew nothing of the dozens of other babes with the same dark hair and blue eyes.

"I will," Esmae promised her.

"Well, you met your sister," Sabina said when they left the brothel, "quite the family reunion, that was."

"That girl was a child herself," Esmae shook her head in disbelief, "how can —"

"How can she what? Try to make a living? Believe me, Your Grace, she is better cared for there than on the streets."

Esmae had nothing to reply to that. Sabina was right, wrong as it was.

* * *

Whenever Esmae was overflowed with feelings, be that happiness, sadness, anger or all of those combined, she would always resort to a failsafe approach of dealing with them. It was red, sweet and spicy, made you a little giddy and a lot happier and was better enjoyed in a company.

This is why after the day spent in wallowing and thinking of her father's idiocy, Esmae was found at Renly's door, hammering on it incessantly. She would've walked in without knocking, but since Loras was still in the castle, she decided against it.

"Gods be good, what — " Renly opened the door, appearing shirtless and clad only in his smallclothes, "Oh, it's you," he sighed, clearly unimpressed to see her.

Esmae pushed past him unceremoniously, "What, were you expecting someone else?"

"Well, no," Renly threw on a thin shift while Esmae helped herself to a goblet of wine. She dawned it in one sitting and wasted no time in pouring some more. He watched her with amusement.

"My father is mad, my mother is delirious, Eddard Stark is bloody naive and _you_," Esmae pinned him with a pointed glare, "are an idiot."

"Alright," Renly intoned in bewildered, his blue eyes simmering with mirth, "Care to explain why?"

"I ordered some wine to be brought to your solar," Esmae informed him as she fell comfortably into an armchair near the heath, "Arbor red, your favourite."

"I already have wine…"

Esmae looked at him, annoyed, "Clearly not enough."

"What got you so chipper?" Renly chuckled and poured himself a glass.

"Where do I start?" Esmae sighed sarcastically, "My mother wants to marry me off to a Tyrell who is not your lover, for one."

Renly frowned, "Who, Garlan?"

"The other one."

He almost choked on the wine, "Willas?"

"Blessed be the Mother," Esmae toasted.

"I suppose it could be worse," Renly relented, "Loras always speaks very highly of him."

Esmae dropped her head back with a loud groan, "I know. Sansa Stark has it much worse, and look at her. The girl is glowing with happiness."

"After what Lord Stark said at the small council meeting, I'm surprised the betrothal still stands."

"I told father as much," Esmae shrugged, "But he's too obsessed with the idea of uniting out Houses to see reason. Now, where is that bloody wine?"

Soon the servants brought in the much-needed ewers of wine. It flowed like a river as did their conversations, and after some time, Esmae found herself laughing heartily at the ridiculous joke about Joffrey that Renly had overheard from one of the guards. They talked of their past and of the stormlands, of Renly's progress and Esmae's trip to Winterfell. She finally told him of her meeting with Eddard Stark's infamous bastard and of the talk she had shared with Robb, his true son and heir. With her tongue dangerously unrestrained, Esmae blabbered on about his luscious auburn curls and deep eyes as blue as the waters of Riverrun.

"_Blue as the waters of Riverrun_?" Renly snorted with laughter as they lay on his featherbed, ewers of wine long emptied, "My my, aren't you a bard, Esmae."

Esmae shoved him in the ribs, "Shut up."

"Well did you kiss him?"

"Of course not!"

"Why not?"

"Because," Esmae said stupidly, "you don't just…go around kissing people."

Renly sneakered, "What a virtuous princess you are."

"Better be virtuous than a randy stag like you," she said primly.

"You just don't know what you're missing."

Esme raised a sceptical brow at him, "Oh really? And what am I missing?"

She suspected what she was missing. On one occasion Esmae had opened a very scandalous book she had found in the library. It had all sorts of diagrams that made her marvel at human anatomy.

"Oh, little fawn," Renly sighed ponderously "You will soon enjoy the carnal wonders of love yourself."

"Carnal perhaps, but I doubt love will have anything to do with it."

"Well, love has little do with passion. You might desire a person and yet feel love for another," Renly said.

"So _that_ is why my father has a bastard in every region."

He laughed, "I'm afraid that for Robert sex is merely a part of the daily routine. He eats, he shits, he fucks and then he hunts."

"But doesn't love make it better?" Esmae wondered with a slight frown.

Renly stayed silent for a moment. And then he said, "Sometimes love makes it worse."

Esmae stumbled out of Renly's solar late at night in a sombre yet better mood than she had been in before. It was nice to forget about impending troubles for a little while and discuss something other than murders and conspiracies.

Esmae had never before thought about love. She got used to the idea of love as a luxury that was rarely present in a marriage, much less a royal one. Her parents were never in love, that much she knew. Esmae never saw them share a tender kiss or a loving embrace, never caught them stealing looks at each other or exchanging smiles full of secret meaning known only to them. Her parents were no better than strangers who shared children and a castle, and Esmae only wished that her future husband wouldn't despise her so. She didn't want his love and affection but his trust and respect. That, she knew, would be enough.

But she sometimes thought about what it would be like to be loved. Selflessly, completely, with absolute abandon. Esmae wanted this feeling to consume her, dull her senses and make the incessant whirl of thoughts in her head disappear.

The Keep was dark and deserted and only her light steps could be heard echoing through the long corridors, dimly lit by the torches. Esmae resembled a lone ghost wandering about the abandoned castle, much like Lady Jenny who danced in the ruins of Oldstones with the spirits of ancient kings. She found herself absently humming the song and almost began to dance but she instantly halted at the sound of foreign footsteps. Although Esmae wasn't sneaking out and therefore wasn't afraid of getting caught, she still felt uneasy at the thought of being alone with a stranger in a dark corridor. And so she hid behind an alcove and watched a huge shadow on the wall. The silhouette became smaller with each step the stranger took, and soon he emerged from around the corner…

_Uncle Jaime?_

Esmae knew that he was never on guard duty during the night. So why wasn't he in the White Sword tower?

Too intrigued and inebriated, Esmae slid out of her hiding place and decided to follow him. Jaime moved almost silently, freed of his weighty armour and clad only in trousers and a tunic. It was so strange to see him in anything but the golden suit.

He walked in a very fast pace, almost hurriedly, and Esmae found it challenging to keep up in a dress and with a dizzy head. She realized they were nearing the royal apartments, and felt her frown deepen when Jaime finally stopped at a door. The door to the queen's apartments.

Esmae pressed closer to the wall to remain unseen and watched as Jaime knocked on the wood gently, the sound quiet and dull, swallowed by the night's silence. And the door opened, the light of the candles spilling into the dark corridor. Jaime looked over his shoulder as if to make sure they were alone and went inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft thud.

Esmae let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

_What in the seven hells?_

* * *

**A/N: **_Yup, sometimes love does make things worse, doesn't it? I wonder if Esmae will be able to put two and two together in the next chapter._

_Honestly, I have no idea if she will. I'll ask her tomorrow._


	9. The Last of Storm Kings

**A/N:** _Hey guys, here's another chapter:) Thank you for the follows and the favourites! I really appreciate it. _

_Not gonna say much today. Just that this chapter made me pretty emotional..._

* * *

Esmae was woken up in the dead of night from a commotion without the castle walls. She could hear shouts coming from the lower bailey and left her bed in haste to see what was going on. The guards were gathered near the holdfast, torches illuminating their gold cloaks. Ser Barristan was with them, clearly waiting for someone's arrival.

Something felt awry, that much Esmae could tell. She donned a thick robe of deep red and made haste to leave her chambers but didn't make it far before she was stopped by Ser Arys's low grumble, "You are not to leave your rooms, Your Grace."

The man truly lived up to the sigil of his House and stood planted like a tall tree, just as impervious and unwavering.

"One whose orders?" Esmae demanded, eyes blazing.

"The queen's, Your Grace."

She quirked a defiant brow, "And how do you intend to stop me, Ser Arys? I doubt the king would be pleased to hear that one of his Kingsguard used force on the princess," Esmae's voice sounded weak from the sleep but imposing nonetheless. But her temper did nothing to rustle Ser Arys' leaves which only amplified Esmae's anger. Here she was, seeking to look threatening, and the man didn't even spare her a glance, eyes trained forward.

"I believe the king would want you to be safe, Your Grace," he replied in a gentle, composed manner. How utterly infuriating.

Esmae narrowed her eyes at him, or rather at his noble profile for he was set on not facing her. She had never paid much attention to her sworn shield before. Mostly because Esmae tried her best to pretend he wasn't there, something that proved to be futile for the clacking of his armour served as a constant reminder of the opposite. Ser Arys didn't talk much and seldom got angry. Come to think of it, Esmae had never seen any outstanding emotion on his face. Not that she had ever looked at it, not properly. _It was rather comely. _

"Safe from what exactly? Has something happened?"

"Nothing you should concern yourself with, Your Grace."

Esmae bristled at the irritatingly cordial reply, "I will be the judge of that if it pleases you, Ser Arys. Now tell me what's all the ruckus about or so help me Gods, I will run off and have you explain yourself to the king."

After some moments of silence, Esmae felt her fiery resolve crumble just a little and thought that she would truly have to go through with the threat. But then happened the unimaginable. Ser Arys turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were warm and inviting, not a trace of irritation or malice in them.

"There was a skirmish," he told her, "Lannister men ambushed Lord Stark and his retinue on the streets."

"Ambushed?" Esmae repeated, failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation in her drowsy state, "Why?"

"I believe it was Ser Jaime who initiated the brawl, Your Grace," Ser Arys said not without a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Is…is he alright?"

The Kingsguard nodded, "He's said to have fled the city."

That seemed to wake Esmae up completely, "What? He's gone?"

"He is, Your Grace."

She stood there, dumbstruck, trying and failing to understand how all of this mess had come to be in a span of mere hours. Why in the seven hells would Jaime attack Lord Stark out in the open, for everyone to see? He might not have been the brightest Lannister out of the three siblings, but even _that_ was too stupid to call an error of judgement.

"I…I need to see the king — "

"You should return to your chambers, Your Grace," Ser Arys advised most sincerely. Sensing that she was about to protest he added, "I shall escort you to the king's solar on the morn."

Esmae's face was crumpled with indecision. She wished to storm into her father's chambers and demand answers like a woman mad but she was also feeling drowsy and absolutely not up for such a quest. "So be it," she sighed after a moment of hesitation and retreated back to her chambers, stealing a quick look at the Kingsguard before closing the door.

* * *

Ser Arys did good on his promise, and the morning after Esmae was strutting through the corridors to her father's solar, her sworn shield not a step behind. She could feel his presence more acutely now. The clacking of the armour seemed louder, footsteps heavier, the heat from his body more apparent. It was strange. But Esmae was too preoccupied with the matter at hand to really concern herself with it.

Upon reaching the king's solar, she learned that her father was, in fact, gone on a small council meeting and wouldn't be back for quite some time. Restless for answers, Esmae decided to come to the only other person who was able to give them to her, and so in the lioness' den she went.

"Mother," Esmae flew into the queen's chambers like a raging storm. She found Cersei at the table, a ponderously murderous look on her face and a goblet of wine in her hand, "What's happened?"

"Catelyn Stark has abducted your uncle," she gritted out and took a generous sip of wine.

"What — "

"Tyrion was taken from one of the inns on the road and is now being held prisoner."

Esmae felt slight dizziness at the words. They sounded so preposterous and foreign, they couldn't simply be true, could they? _He hadn't replied to your letters in months,_ the voice reminded her, and Esmae paled at the realization that indeed, she hadn't heard from Tyrion in a long time. It seemed she had been right to worry.

"But why would she do such a thing?"

"Well, apparently Tyrion's responsible for crippling the Stark boy," Cersei replied with an airy gesture, "Catelyn Stark is hellbent on bringing him to justice."

Esmae huffed with indignation, "This is absurd! How dare they act upon it without the king's permission?"

"It seems her husband's permission was all she needed," Cersei said with a scowl, practically shaking with fury, like an untamable beast locked in a cage. She wanted revenge, Esmae knew, but Robert had surly prohibited her from taking any action.

"And what does Lord Stark have to say about his wife's actions?"

"Lord Stark hasn't yet woken up from his slumber," Cersei told her wryly, finding solace in the fact that he hadn't managed to come out unscathed, "Your grandfather has sent word. He is going to call the banners."

"Grandfather wishes to start a war? Mother, surely —"

"Tyrion is a blight on our family's name but he is a Lannister. And every day that he remains a prisoner, the less our name commands respect."

_Our family_. Every time Cersei opened her mouth, Tywin's words spilt out. No doubt she simply recited what he had written.

"The Starks are not going to take this lightly."

"Good," the queen brought the goblet to her full lips, "let them howl."

* * *

The throne room was engulfed in the light of sunset. It filtered threw the high narrow windows, throwing rays of dark red over the marble floors and the stone walls, embellished with vivid hunting tapestries. There was a long line of petitioners stretching from the tall doors. High lords and ladies, as well as knights, were gathered at court, with smallfolk clustered in the gallery, all eyes fixed on the dais.

Esmae was surprised to see Eddard Stark sitting the Iron Throne, as the newly-reinstated Hand of the King. It appeared that the unfortunate brawl in the city that had ended in Eddard's injury and the death of his loyal men also led to the final reconciliation with the king. One that Robert had decided to celebrate by setting off on a hunting trip to the kingswood, leaving his trusted counsellors to deal with the kingly duties.  
Esmae watched Lord Stark in the king's seat, wary as could be as though all the thousand blades it was constructed from would suddenly turn against him. She stood under the heavy tapestries where the nobles were gathered, Fenwick beside her. After Jamie's sudden escape from the capital, he found himself without a knight to squire for. Suffice to say, it wasn't something Fenwick much dwelled upon. In fact, they began to spend more time together, and Esmae found that walks around the Red Keep with Lord Fenwick were far more enjoyable than tea time with her ladies. Lady Melysa had taken quite the liking to him as well, much to Esmae's amusement. She only hoped that her poor, naive handmaiden wouldn't develop a hopeless affection for him.

The Red Keep seemed to settle into quiet after the skirmish between Lord Stark and Ser Jaime. And quiet was somehow much worse, Esmae knew, for it meant that there was something terrible brewing underneath the surface. Something that had been brewing for a long while and was ready to burst at any moment. A calm before the storm. And while the impending doom was looming over, Esmae tried to put together the pieces of her investigation. Quite unfruitfully, to her utter exasperation.

Now looking at Lord Stark, she wondered if _he_ had learned the truth. Somehow Esmae doubted it. If he indeed had, he wouldn't be sitting the throne right now and the king wouldn't be away on a casual hunt. No, when the truth came out, Esmae thought, that was when the chaos would ensue.

"So the babe was the king's bastard" Fenwick had asked once Esmae'd told him of her visit to the brothel. They had met in the godswood, something that Ser Arys had found strange if the worried expression on his face was any indication. He had, however, stood guard at the entrance, leaving Esmae and Fenwick alone to their _prayers_.

"One of many," Esmae had sighed, "Only…what makes the babe so special? Why would Lord Arryn visit her? Why would _uncle Stannis_ go to _a brothel_ to visit her?"

"Why would they visit that apprentice boy?" Fenwick had shrugged breezily but Esmae couldn't stop thinking about it since.

She had almost forgotten about Gendry. The vivid blue of his eyes and the raven black of his hair. His tall and brawny build…the realization had hit her like a crushing wave of ice-cold water. How could she not have noticed it right away? The boy looked so much like her father, so much like young Renly, it was almost uncanny. And yet, even that discovery did little to shed any light on the truth.

The king's bastards were no novelty to her or to anyone, really, for Robert had always successfully contributed to the Westeros' growing population. But why would Lord Arryn have suddenly taken interest in this?

"Do you think it's true?" Fenwick's voice broke Esmae out of her thoughts.

She had ceased listening to Eddard Stark's rumbling a while ago and now found herself frowning at the people kneeling before the throne. They were old people, women and children, all covered in blood and dirt. Esmae recognized the man that stood with them — Lord Darry, who had so kindly accommodated their royal party on the way back from Winterfell.

"What is?"

"That the Lannisters sent those brigades to raid the riverlands?"

_Yes, it is, because Lannisters always pay their debts._

"Perhaps," Esmae told him absently, trying not to let the dread wash over her.

She knew that the war was upon them. Tywin Lannister never made empty threats and he was now living up to them. The riders were not a warning of something much worse to prepare for. No, they were a bait, a provocation to lure the riverlands into open conflict. And it was just the beginning, Esmae feared, a glowing ember that would soon grow into a beastly flame.

"The Mountain!" one of the rivermen said, "Can any man doubt it? This was Gregor Clegane's work."

Esmae wasn't surprised to hear that one of her grandfathers' most loyal and equally as cruel bannermen was responsible for such atrocious crimes. But no one in the throne room would dare admit that they had been committed on Tywen Lannister's orders, although all knew it to be true. And so Gregor Clegane was declared a false knight, who had forsaken his holy vows for murder and rape.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, his Hand, I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king's flag and there bring the king's justice to Gregor Clegane, and to all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him and attaint him, and strip him of all rank and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings, and so do sentence him to death. May the gods take pity on his soul."

Esmae found Eddard Stark's decision surprisingly wise and reasonable. He had chosen good, trusted men who bore no loyalties to her grandfather, something that couldn't be said about the king's justice Ser Ilyn, led by Lord Beric Dondarrion. Loras Tyrell looked positively slighted by being disregarded, but Esmae thought that it was for the better. Petyr Baelish had spoken true — Loras would never be able to take on the Mountain, however much valour he possessed.

"The throne will hear no more petitions," Lord Stark announced and the throne room began to clear out, people moving towards the exit to go about their own business.

Esmae gestured for Fenwick to follow her but as they approached the tall doors, she heard a familiar sly purr, "Some of her lord father's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. The young lady is as wise as she is lovely," Lord Baelish's smile was perfectly devilish as he looked at the blushing Sansa Stark.

"Why does no one realize how creepy he is?" Fenwick noted from her side when Lord Baelish touched the girl's cheek and whispered something they couldn't overhear.

"Because he's powerful and rich," Esmae simply said, "Come, we have to go to the library before I am called for supper."

* * *

Esmae and Fenwick had been searching the library for a few weeks before they decided to give up and accept their defeat. Apparently, Grand Maester Malleon wasn't a very prolific chronicler and had only managed to produce a single tome, albeit a grand one, that was currently locked in the Hand's Tower. In possession of the man who has stood behind her uncle's kidnapping.

Esmae had been feeling particularly anxious these days. Her thoughts constantly went to uncle Tyrion, whom she hadn't seen for months and would possibly never see again. _How she despised that woman_. The righteous Catelyn Stark whose selfish actions had started the war no one wanted. The war that could have easily been prevented had she thought before taking Tyrion Lannister hostage. And now Jaime was gone as well. Last Esmae heard, he had joined grandfather Tywin in Casterly Rock and they were currently marching on the riverlands to meet Robb Stark's army.

_Robb Stark. _

Only mere weeks ago she had been drunkenly telling Renly about his mesmerizing blue irises and russet curls, about his smile and laughter…and now he was her enemy. It seemed so far away, the day she had met him. In truth, Esmae couldn't even remember his face anymore, not really. It made hating him a little easier, though.

"Enter," Esmae called from her table when there was a knock at the door. She was finishing a letter addressed to the Archmaesters of the Citadel in the hopes that they could shed some light on Malleon's mysterious work. The door creaked open, and Esmae snapped her head up, "Lady Sansa," her voice held a hint of surprise.

Sansa Stark looked put together as always in a beautiful dress of steel grey, hair falling down her shoulders in burning flames. Only her face was somewhat devoid of the brightness it usually bore, replaced by a grim mien, eyes rimmed with red and noticeably swollen from crying.

"I am awfully sorry to disturb you, Your Grace…"

"You are not," Esmae quickly assured her. She secured the letter with a seal and set it aside, "Please, come and take a seat, my lady."

Obviously nervous but too courteous and proud to show it, Sansa sat herself down in a chair opposite the princess. She straightened her back to appear more collected and ran her blue eyes over the room.

"Your chambers are beautiful, Your Grace," Sansa noted politely.

"Thank you. I believe King Maegor would be quite happy to hear that."

Lady Sansa blushed at the remark. Esmae smiled and reached for the ewer of wine on the table to pour herself a goblet. "Would you like some?" she looked at Sansa who was watching her with wonder.

"I-I would be most thankful, Your Grace."

"Oh don't be, it's only wine. Surely, there are more important things to be thankful for," Esmae handed one of the goblets to Sansa and took a sip from her own, "Now, my lady," she said with a sigh, "Tell me, what is troubling you?"

Sansa shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, back even straighter than before. She dropped her eyes to the goblet that was clutched in her hands, than raised them at Esmae, "It's my lord father, Your Grace."

That did well to pique Esmae's interest, "Has he done something awful?" she wondered wryly, trying to sound bored.

"He wishes to send Arya and I back to Winterfell, and I…I simply cannot stand for it, Your Grace. Surely, there must be something you could do to stop him? Mayhap the queen could sway him…" Sansa stammered, her eyes filling with tears again.

"Why would Lord Stark want to send you away?" Esmae asked curiously.

Sansa made an effort to compose herself, "He said it isn't safe but — but it is the safest place in the whole realm! How can it not be? To live under the king's protection is an honour —"

"Lady Sansa," the steel of Esmae's voice made the girl cease her prattling, "your father's men were killed on the streets of this very city," _On my uncle's orders_, "Perhaps you should listen to him."

Sansa's eyes widened in horror, "How could I leave Joffrey? W-we are supposed to get married, I am to be…h-his wife, his q-queen — I love him! I love him with all my heart, Your Grace, you know that — "

"I do not doubt your feelings my lady, albeit they _are_ tragically misplaced."

"Misplaced?" Sansa repeated with a delicate frown.

Esmae let out a martyred sigh, bracing herself, "My brother does not deserve your affection, Lady Sansa. You may try to love him, sure, but will soon find out that Joffrey knows not how to return that foreign feeling."

"Prince Joffrey is perfectly gallant, Your Grace, " Sansa bristled, cheeks heated from emotion, "He has a valiant, gentle and loving nature — "

"Does he now?" Esmae echoed, sipping at the wine, "He almost had your pup killed, that doesn't sound much valiant and loving to me."

Sansa's face quickly fell, "Joffrey is not to be blamed," she protested with undiluted conviction, "It was all Arya's fault; hers and that butcher's boy. Joffrey wished only to protect me, and Arya acted like a thoughtless savage. She ruined everything. She always does."

Esmae nodded ponderously and gave Sansa a patronizing smile, "And do you really believe that, my lady?"

"Of c-course I do, Your Grace. Don't you? You are his sister, surely you must know sweet Joffrey better than I could ever hope to."

_She sings this song so beautifully_

"In that, you are not wrong my lady — I do know things about Joffrey that few are privy to. Which is why you ought to take my next words to heart," Esmae said and looked at Sansa with such intent the girl stilled, "I am going to be completely blunt, for I would not stand for Joffrey revelling in your misery, my lady, and I hope on that front we are united."

Sansa stared at Esmae with wide, frightened eyes, unblinking. "Joffrey is wicked and heartless, and he's going to ruin you, Lady Sansa," she told her calmly, "Everything good and innocent about you, he'll taint and take twisted joy in seeing you suffer. You will be greatly surprised by how many people will fail to notice the marks upon your skin and dullness in your eyes, how many will pity you but won't do a thing to help. And so you will slowly wane, day after day, after day," Esmae drawled wistfully, "Until finally there will be nothing left."

By the end of her tale, Sansa Stark was properly terrified. But the horror on her dainty face slowly morphed into confusion, "You are wrong, Your Grace," she murmured, "Joffrey would never do such a thing to me! He loves me and I love him — "

"You do not _know_ him, Sansa," Esmae said loudly, cutting her off.

She had never before seen Sansa Stark angry. The girl was far too courteous to display any such unbecoming emotion. And despite being a perfect lady like her mother, Esmae could finally see the wild, northern part of Sansa coming to the surface.

But she did well to quickly rein in her temper, "Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa said calmly and stood up, "I will leave you to your correspondence now."

"Lady Sansa," Esmae called after her. Sansa turned around, hand resting on a door handle, "If you want to be queen, then be queen. Love should be the last thing driving you to it."

* * *

Esmae's room was dimly lit by the fire of candles, enveloping it in a warm, gentle light. She always enjoyed the time when evenfall settled over King's Landing. She liked to hear the city slowly falling asleep: loud sounds turning into a gentle buzz, air becoming colder and so clear you could smell the sea.

She was lying on the silken covers of her featherbed, Tommen and Myrcella on both sides. Tommen's mop of blond hair was resting against her shoulder as Esmae read them stories of the great Kingdom of the Storm and the ancient Durrandon kings who had once ruled over their ancestral home. Esmae was currently reading out a tale of Durran Godsgrief who had wed a goddess, thus bringing the wrath of her parents upon his kingdom. Myrcella dreamily pointed out how romantic it was that he had forsaken everything for love. Tommen, however, was preoccupied with something completely different, "Did he really rule for a thousand years?"

"I'm afraid not," Esmae chuckled and ran her fingers through his golden locks, "He was probably called King of a Thousand years because every Durrandon heir was henceforth named after him and poor maesters simply got confused."

"Why isn't Joffrey called Durran?" Tommen wondered, his voice endearingly sweet, "He is the heir."

"Because Joff isn't a Durrandon, silly," Myrcella told him primly.

"Well, we might not bear the Durrandon _name_, but their blood is flowing through our veins still, never forget that," Esmae told them, "We are descendent from great Storm Kings that bowed to no man nor any God."

"Where did they go then?" came Tommen's soft voice after a minute's silence.

"It was many a century ago, during the times of Aegon's Conquest," Esmae said and her youngest siblings stilled in anticipation of a great story, "The last of Storm Kings, Argilac the Arrogant, feared an impending war with the Isles and the Rivers and reached out to King Aegon for help. In return, he offered him leagues of land and the hand of his only daughter and heir, princess Argella."

"Aegon sent an envoy with a reply that was not to the Storm King's liking. He rejected the offer of Argella's hand, having two wives already —"

"Two wives?" Myrcella gasped, scandalized.

Esmae struggled to find an explanation for that, "The times were…simpler then. But three wives was, apparently, one too many for King Aegon, and so he countered with an offer of his own, asking for more lands and marriage between Princess Argella and his Hand, Orys Baratheon."

"However, there were rumours of Orys being King Aegon's bastard brother —"

"Like Lord Stark's bastard?"

"Yes, Tommen, just like Jon Snow," Esmae nodded, "King Argilac was enraged by such a preposterous offer — he would never have his daughter marry a by-blow. Driven by his fury, he sent King Aegon a very…gory letter which put a start to Aegon's Conquest. In the battle called the Last Storm, Orys Baratheon, sent to take Storm's End together with Aegon's wife Rhaenys, slew King Argilac in brutal combat."

"Assured of their victory, the Targaryens made it for Storm's End but were met with a sudden resistance from the new Storm Queen, Argella Durrandon. She was strong and willful and simply refused to bend the knee to the foreign invaders. Unfortunately, her men were not as loyal. Too scared to be burnt alive, they revolted and declared peace, delivering Queen Argella to Orys Baratheon's camp," Esmae finished with a sigh. This story was one of her favourites and she always felt a surge of pride whenever she read it.

"Did he kill her?" Myrcella asked.

"Oh no, he married her and became the first Lord of Storm's End, establishing — "

Easton's words were interrupted by a hammering on the door. It thundered through the peace of her chambers, making Tommen and Myrcella nearly jump from fear. Esmae regarded the door with suspicious, "Stay in bed," she told the children and went to open it.

"Ser Arys?" she breathed with relief, mildly irritated, "What is the matter?"

Esmae didn't like the look in his eyes. It was almost…sympathetic, "It's the king, Your Grace," he said, "He wishes to see you."

* * *

Death never scared Esmae Baratheon.

It held little allure either, but she never shuddered at the thought of eternal sleep, for it was rather peaceful, she thought, and peace was one thing she always craved. Esmae strongly believed that people lived their lives the way they could, seldom earned what they owned and always got the death they deserved.

But looking at Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident who had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen, lying on his deathbed, Esmae thought that it was not the death her father deserved. He was a warrior, a storm king, a force to reckon with. He should've met his death on a field of gruesome battle. The kind of death that would be painted in glory decades, centuries later, like that of King Argilac.

Instead, the stories would say that Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, was killed by a boar. The bore he had been too drunk to meet in honest combat.

The heat within the room was suffocating. Servants hurried about, throwing more logs into the heaths to feed the fire and keep the king warm. _His Grace is losing a lot of blood_, explained Grand Maester Pycelle as he hovered at the king's bedside with useless ointments. As if they could help when his stomach was almost ripped apart.

Esmae was sat on the edge of her father's canopied bed while Cersei sat on the other, having trouble coming to grips with the situation. Her father was dying before her eyes. Renly walked back and forth, restless in his grief, his impeccable green riding leathers covered in dried blood. The room was quiet but for Robert's laboured breathing and the clanking of Maester Pycelle's as he moved around to change the king's bandages.

And then the door creaked open, "Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King," the royal steward announced. Eddard limped inside the room, everyone following him. Esmae noticed Cersei's green eyes flash for a moment, but she quickly drew them back to her dying husband.

It seemed that Lord Stark stilled for a moment at the sight of his friend but was soon helped to cross the room by two of his guards.

"Ned," Robert whispered. Esmae winced at how weak his voice sounded. Robert Baratheon was never weak, "Come closer."

Eddard looked almost dazed when the guards brought him to the king's bedside, "What?…"

"A boar," Renly told him, his voice thick with worry. Esmae had never seen him so on edge before.

"A devil," the king rasped, "My fault. Too much wine…missed my thrust."

"And where were the rest of you?" Eddard glared at Renly, "Ser Barristan and the Kinsguard?"

"Do you really think it would've made a difference, Lord Stark?" Eddard's head whipped to Esmae as if he hadn't expected her to speak at all, "The king does how the king he pleases, isn't it right, father?"

"Esmae — " Cersei began but was cut off by Robert's husky laughter that quickly grew into a cough.

"The girl speaks true," he said with a wane smile on his pale face, "I commanded them to stay aside, Ned. Bastard did me good, eh? I paid him back though. I drove a knife right through his brain. Ask them if I didn't. Ask them."

The air was thick with heat, stench of dried blood and unease.

"Truly," Renly finally replied, "We brought the carcass back with us."

"For my funeral feast. I want it to be the biggest the kingdoms ever saw. And I want everyone to taste the beast that got me," Robert declared, "Now leave us. I need to speak with Ned."

"Robert, my sweet…" Cersei ventured.

"Out. All of you," Robert insisted, for a moment sounding like his old self again.

Hesitant to leave her father's side, Esmae slowly gathered her skirts and followed Cersei out of the chamber, leaving Eddard Stark alone with the king. She wished she could have pressed her ear to the wooden door if only to catch a word of that conversation. But alas, she wasn't alone. Ser Barristan still guarded the chamber, Lord Varys next to him. Esmae sent the Spider a curious look that he returned with a shadow of a smile.

"You are staying?" Cersei asked with a raised brow.

Esmae lingered by the door, "I want to be here," she said.

"Alright. Ser Arys will stay with you."

Esmae's first urge was to protest against it. What need was there of him when there was Ser Barristan to protect her? But she checked herself — it was no time nor place to throw a meaningless feat, and so she gave a placid nod.

As soon as Cersei was out of sight, Esmae approached Renly with a ferocious look on her face, "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

"Should I really tell you this story again?" Renly snapped.

"You will tell it as many time as I wish!"

"Oh, is that a command, _my princess_?"

"Lord Renly," Ser Barristan said loudly in admonishment, "Perhaps we should all calm down and let the king rest."

"I simply wish to know what kind of fool kept my father's skin filled with wine," Esmae whispered heatedly trying not to raise her voice.

"It was the king's squire," Ser Barristan told her.

"Lancel?" Esmae asked with a frown.

"Such a dutiful boy to make sure His Grace did not lack refreshment," said Varys, "I do hope the poor lad does not blame himself."

Esmae narrowed her eyes at him and was about to say something when the door opened again and out came Lord Stark, his face sullen and wary. He looked up at them, eyes stopping at the princess, "The king wishes to speak with you, Your Grace."

Esmae ignored Renly's questioning look and walked to the door. Eddard was keeping it open for her, "He doesn't have long," he told her quietly when she went inside, sparing him a quick glance.

When the door closed behind her, Esmae stilled at the entrance. It seemed like hours had passed when she finally made a step forward and approached the king's bedside.

"You came," he rasped out, dim blue eyes looking at her with surprise.

Esmae took a seat on the edge of the bed, scooting closer to him, "I came," she echoed.

She felt her eyes fill with tears from the way he was looking at her. He had never looked at her before at all. Never really seen her. But he was seeing her now.

"You look like my mother Cassana, girl," he whispered, "You've got her Estermont hair and her strong will, that's for certain. But that temper," he let out a throaty chuckle, "That temperament is all mine."

"I'm not sure that's a good thing, father," Esmae told him with a teasing smile.

"Horseshit. There's no place in this world for…for a cowering fawn, girl. You've got to be a stag. Got to…show them how sharp your antlers are," he coughed and winced as a spasm of pain hit him, "Fucking hell…"

"Should I call the Maester?" Esmae asked in alarm but Robert waved her off.

"Seen enough…of that bloody old fool. Want to look at my daughter now," he said hoarsely. Esmae took his hand into hers, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Father…" she croaked.

"You were right…about your brother...you were right. He can't do it…alone," another spasm took over Robert and Esmae squeezed his hand hard as he swallowed his agony, "He is a fool…boy…too young to be a king…I never taught him…you…have to help him," he said through his pain.

Esmae bobbed her head, "I will, I promise."

"Forgive me…for what I said," his eyes looked so completely lost, "I only meant that…you are strong…like my mother…your mother is…Myrcella…"

"It's alright, father," Esmae murmured through her tears, "There is nothing to forgive."

"Show him…show him the proper way. Make him…do better, Esmae. And don't let them…those Lannisters whisper in his ear…aye?"

She took a deep breath to calm herself and forced a smile upon her face, "Yes, father."

Roberts eyes closed for a moment and then fluttered slightly, his breathing loud and ragged, "Now leave, get out of here, girl. Don't want you to…remember me like that…an old…fat, dying fool."

"Should I call Maester Pycelle?"

"Yes…and tell that old halfwit to…bring me something for that bloody pain."

Esmae fought another surge of tears and shook her head at Robert's antics, "As you wish, father."

He was barely conscious when she pressed a kiss against his cold forehead. His skin was pale as winter's snow, lips almost blue. Esmae couldn't bear the sight any longer and all but stormed out of the room and into the corridor, almost forgetting that she wasn't alone. Esmae was thankful that at least Lord Varys was gone, for she had no patience for his cryptic remarks.

"Tend to the king, Grand Maester," she told the old man. He gave a curt bow and scurried into the king's chamber.

It wasn't long before Renly was upon her, "What did he tell you?"

"Not now, Renly," Esmae whispered, feeling completely empty.

"But — "

"Go to bed," she told him, "tomorrow is going to be a long day."

* * *

**A/N:** _Badum-tss? Yeah, gotta say, I shed a tear or two writing that last scene._

_Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! And please don't forget to leave a comment for a poor ficwirter who doesn't miss an update, yeah? I really want to know what you think and read your theories about what's gonna happen:) _


	10. Broken Crown

The image of Robert's waning face was imprinted in Esmae's mind like a heated stamp. Burning through it. Bringing tears to her eyes.

She couldn't believe it was truly happening.

Robert Baratheon was the frail thread that held together a semblance of peace in the realm. His death would inevitably unleash the havoc that had been brewing steadily for all those years. And while Esmae knew that it was coming, never had she suspected that it would arrive quite so soon.

"I don't want to return to my chambers," she called to Ser Arys in a cool, flat voice.

The knight nodded, albeit with some hesitation. It was past midnight, after all, "Where does Your Grace wish to go?"

"The godswood."

She needed to think. Needed to bide her time and make a plan.

"Your Grace — "

"I'm going with or without you, Ser Arys," Esmae dismissed him with an indifferent glance and made towards the bridge that led to the lower bailey. Some gold cloaks stood sentry at the entrance, Ser Blount among them. They eyed her with suspicion and sent questioning looks to Ser Arys, who was following the princess with seizable reluctance.

"Esmae!"

She was halfway through the bridge when a voice called out to her. With a frown, Esmae whipped her head towards Maegor's Holdfast and started. Renly was running towards her. The same Renly who never new hurry and always did everything with leisure, taking his sweet time. Ser Arys eyed him curiously.

"I must speak with you," Renly said through rugged breath as he came to a stop in front of Esmae.

"Now? Renly, surely it can wait until morning…"

His dark blue eyes implored her, "It cannot."

"Alright," Esmae sighed, "Alright, Renly. Talk."

"_Alone_."

She could feel Ser Aryn tense next to her. With a long look at her uncle, Esmae gestured. The knight bowed and walked back to the holdfast, taking his place in the doors next to Ser Blount so that he could still watch them from afar.

"What is going on with you?" Esmae demanded.

Renly glanced warily at the guards and leaned in closer to her, "I am leaving the capital. Tonight," he said. Esmae's eyes widened in shock, mouth agape, "And you have to come with me."

She took a fearful look around. Her eyes stopped at Ser Arys who was watching them with intent curiosity. Esmae quickly looked away, "Have you lost your mind, Renly?"

"No, but I will loose my head if I stay here."

"You're scaring me —"

"I do not intend to vow fealty to the new king."

Esmae's eyes softened at his words, "Renly…"

"We both know Joffrey is a disaster waiting to happen, Esmae. And with the Lannisters whispering in his ear…"

_And don't let them…those Lannisters whisper in his ear_

"Perhaps that is why he needs us here," she told him, hardly believing the words herself, "We may have sway over him yet — "

A wry scoff escaped Renly's lips, "I never took you for a fool, Esmae. There's no swaying Joffrey. And once he's king, even Cersei will lose the little control she has over him."

_Show him…show him the proper way. Make him…do better, Esmae._

"I can't, Renly," Esmae whispered, defeated.

She flinched at the betrayed look on his face. Slighted. It made her heart ache to be the one to cause him such pain.

"This is a mistake," he told her.

Esmae nodded, "One I'm making willingly."

Renly looked so different now, she thought. The worry and anxiousness etched on his face made him appear so much older. Without a constant grin and laughter in his eyes that shone almost green in the joyous moments, Renly bore a slight resemblance to his older brother Stannis.

"I suppose this is a farewell, then," Esmae said quietly, her voice breaking a little.

Renly raised his eyes at her, jaw clenched stubbornly, "I am to leave an hour before dawn. A horse will be waiting for you in the stables," he said before he trudged away, footsteps heavy as Esmae's heart.

* * *

Renly was gone.

Esmae could feel the potent presence of his absence, and it felt cold. Cold and empty. He had been the only person in the castle who understood her and whom she really trusted. And she had broken that trust.

When Lady Melysa came to wake her, Esmae was already up, staring blankly at the ceiling. She hadn't had a wink of sleep that night, tossing and turning in her bed. _I made the right choice_, she kept telling herself but the words tasted sour in her mouth. Esmae couldn't even believe the lie herself.

She thought about her father and the promise she had made in the room that smelled of blood and anguish and death. The promise she had made without fully understanding what keeping it would demand. She wondered what Robert had told Eddard Stark while they were alone. Her thoughts strayed to her golden haired cousin, too.

_Lancel._

Despite being the same age, they never got on. Esmae thought the boy to be excessively courteous to the point of being slimy, his sweet words biting and dubious. She never liked his sordid smiles and humorless laughter, despised the way his eyes would linger on her breasts when he thought she wasn't looking. But Lancel wasn't smart enough to be dangerous. No, such matters demanded character which he lacked.

Lannisters always paid their debts. Could Robert's death have been just that — a mere retribution?

There wasn't a shortage of people who held a grudge against the king, but there was only one person who hated him with a passion so burning it rivaled the Fourteen Flames. The only person who had the most to gain from Robert's death. But why _now_?

Esmae didn't speak a word while Lady Melysa braided her hair and helped put on a dress of rich, black velvet, its long, heavy cape underlaid with gold. She stared at the the crowned stag embroidered on the bodice. It made her think of Joffrey. Her stomach churned.

Ser Arys was still there when Esmae left her chambers. Standing guard at the door, his face unreadable as always. Esmae paid him no mind and sauntered down the corridor, not even bothering to look back. She knew he would follow her without a word.

The middle bailey was filled with the sounds of hoofbeats as Sandor Clegane trained with a dummy atop a horse, a lance in his hand. The Lannister guards stood around with a couple of gold cloaks, joking and laughing as if their king wasn't dying. Or maybe for the very same reason.

The laughter died down when Esmae passed by them, replaced by sullen murmurs of "Your Grace". Without spearing them a glance, which was surely unbefitting the golden princess that she was, Esmae made her way to the Hand's Tower when suddenly a mop of sandy blond hair caught her eye in the sea of golden and crimson cloaks.

Lancel Lannister was a cowardly, gangly thing. He bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the training dummies, only he was clad in armor that hung from his thin limbs like a set of silver cutlery. Many considered Lancel handsome like his cousin Jaime, but Esmae found that comparison absolutely ridiculous. Lancel was no lion, not even a cub.

The guards stepped aside, some left, returning to their respectful duties as Esmae approached to him with soft, unhurried steps. Lancel regarded her with caution, dull green eyes shining with arrogance.

"Grieving, Lancel?"

"Of course, Your Grace," he nodded, "As does the realm."

"But you must be distraught," Lancel noticeably stiffened, looking around at the remaining guards and then back at Esmae. "All those years squiring for the king," she sighed and continued in a dangerously low and calm voice that was tinged with sweetness, "And you were such a good squire for him, weren't you, Lancel? Always around to satisfy his every whim. Oh, there were plenty, weren't there? My father is a hard man to please."

"He was a good king," Lancel stuttered dumbly.

"He is a king still," Esmae's eyes flashed,

"Of course, Your Grace, I didn't mean —"

"Ironic, isn't it, Lancel?"

A frown marred his pretty face, "Your Grace?"

"One of the king's greatest vices became his greatest destruction," Esmae said ponderously, "It was clever." Lancel gulped audibly, looking at her with round eyes, "Which is why I know it wasn't your idea."

"Your Grace — "

"Stop talking, Lancel," Esmae cut him off with a hiss. She tried to keep her composure but it was proving to be much harder than anticipated. It seemed that Ser Arys had felt the rising tension as well and stepped closer, hand on the pommel of his sword. "If you don't want your pretty blond head decorating the Traitor's Walk, I suggest you give me the name of your puppeteer."

The fright on Lancel's face morphed into a hesitant sneer, "You wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure? Because you don't seem to be."

"Uncle Tywin would never allow it — "

"I am sure he'll find it in his heart to forgive me," Esmae said with a wry smile, "Uncle Kevan does have two spare sons, after all. What's one to lose?"

Lancel blanched, "I did no wrong," he insisted,"His Grace demanded more wine, I couldn't very well deny him — "

"Give me the name," Esmae pressed, her voice sharp and steely, "and death shall be avoided."

She stood tall in the face-off, eyes blazing as she stared Lancel down with no intent to give up. She knew he would crack — Lancel wasn't the honorable sort and would surely do anything if it meant saving his own life. It was only a matter of time…

The air shattered with a thunder of ringing bells. Everyone in the yard stilled at the deafening sound, turning their heads up to the skies, where birds flocked over the castle.

_The king was dead._

* * *

_Show him the proper way. Make him do better, Esmae. And don't let those Lannisters whisper in his ear._

Robert was dead for a mere hour, and already Esmae had failed him.

She had stood idly by when Cersei advised Joffrey to summon the small council in the throne room _as a king should_. _"It would be wise to have them swear fealty today, my sweet,"_ she told him with a sweet smile to which little Joff replied with a nauseating smirk. Esmae had stood by when their mother laid a gentle hand upon Joffrey's shoulder and told him to write a formal letter to his grandfather. Somehow Esmae didn't need to read it to know exactly what it said.

Joffrey always believed he was meant for greatness. He was Cersei's golden prince, her little Lannister lion, born into a false legacy. The queen protected and coddled the crown prince with bestial fierceness from the very first day he was born, for Joffrey was the security Cersei so needed — with a male heir, a son, she was queen in her own right. The queen mother.

Oh how willingly she accepted that role now.

Five knights of the Kingsguard stood at the base of the throne, Ser Arys among them. Esmae could feel him stealing glances at her from time to time. Glances that she pointedly ignored, focusing her attention on the tall oaken doors of the throne room. Esmae was hiding in the back with her younger siblings, Tommen's chubby hand clutched tightly in hers. _"Why is Joff sitting in father's chair?"_ he had whispered to her in a sweet, curious voice. Esmae was asking herself the same thing.

Joffrey was slumped on the Iron Throne, a golden crown shining atop his curls. Esmae had imagined that scene many a time, trying to get used to the horrible sight, but nothing could have prepared her for reality. For the undeniable feeling of doom that filled the air. For the sense of finality.

Cersei sat beside Joffrey, her mien solemn and closed-off, wearing a beautiful dress of sea green, Esmae noticed, and exquisite jewelry to match.

_No grieving wife, but a thriving dowager queen._

"All Hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," sang the royal steward as the bronzed doors of the throne room opened.

Lord Stark limped down the long hall, his wary eyes trained on the dais. Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys walked by his side with a dozen of Stark guards following behind. Their dull grey armor contrasted with the crimson cloaks of the Lannister men and the gold of the City Watch ranks who were lined up along the walls, stiff in attention.

At last, Lord Stark stopped at the throne. Esmae was surprised that Joffrey had enough courtesy to stand.

"I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation," he proclaimed, "I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors," Esmae saw Cersei give a slight nod of approval.

Silence settled over the throne room and Joffrey began to shuffle on his feat, uncomfortable.

"Ser Barristan," Eddard finally said, looking at the old Kingsguard, "I believe no man here could ever question your honor?"

He retrieved a letter from his robes and handed it to Ser Barristan.

"King Robert's seal," the man announced in a loud voice as he inspected the letter, "Unbroken."

Joffrey looked to his mother, clearly staggered and unnerved by the news. Esmae thought he bore an uncanny resemblance to a squirming weasel at that moment. Cersei, however, remained stoic, impassively watching Ser Barristan break the seal.

"Lord Eddard Stark is herein named…Protector of the Realm," he read out with hesitation and looked up at the queen, "To rule as regent until the heir come of age."

Esmae's eyes flicked to Lord Stark and she caught him looking at her. What in the seven hells is going on?

"May I see that letter, Ser Barristan?" Cersei said and rose from her seat to accept her husband's will. The queen glanced at the words, "Protector of the Realm," she read with a small smile, "Is this meant to be your shield, Lord Stark?" Cersei ripped the letter in two and then ripped it again in quarters, sending the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Those were the king's words," Ser Barristan said, aghast.

"We have a new king now," Cersei replied looking at Eddard, "Lord Eddard, when we last spoke, you offered me some council. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear loyalty to my son. And we shall allow you to live out you days in the grey waste you call home."

Lord Stark looked hesitant and yet determined when he spoke again, "Would that I could," he said grimly, "But your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis is Robert's true heir."

Esmae stilled in shock, her eyes flashing to Cersei. Out of all reactions she would except from her mother, laughter was not one of them. And yet it ranged through the throne room, deranged and mirthless.

"Liar!" Joffrey yelled, face crimson as the cape that donned his shoulders.

"You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Lord Stark," Cersei said, her voice surprisingly calm.

"Esmae, what does he mean?" Myrcella asked plaintively, "Isn't Joff the king now?"

"I…I don't know, Ella."

"Ser Barristan, seize this traitor."

Esmae watched as the Kingsguard froze in hesitation and was quickly surrounded by the Stark guards, "Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man! Do him no harm," Eddard commanded.

Esmae could no longer stand idly by, "Mother, what are you doing?" she hissed.

"What your father never could," Cersei replied calmly, "Do you think he stands alone?" she said to Eddard. At that, the Hound drew his longsword with a loud rasp of metal.

"Kill him!" Joffrey screamed from the throne, "Kill all of them, I command it!"

"You leave me no choice," Eddard said harshly, "Commander, take the queen and her younger children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"What is the meaning of this, Lord Stark?" Esmae called out to him as the gold-cloaks leveled their spears under the command of Janos Slynt.

"I want no bloodshed, princess," he told her and looked at Cersei, "Tell your men to lay down their swords. No one has to die."

Cersei was heaving with anger next to Esmae, her green eyes flashing like liquid fire. Perhaps Esmae should've seen it coming. Perhaps, had she not been blinded by her own righteousness, she could've prevented it. But the moment she noticed the look her mother exchanged with the Commander of the City Watch, Esmae knew that there was no turning back. Cersei gave him a curt nod, and in the blink of an eye, one of the gold-cloaks drove his spear into one of Lord Stark's men.

And the chaos ensued.

* * *

The bells kept ringing through the capitol for the whole city to grieve. The king's body had been carried away by the Silent Sisters for the ceremony, after which his remains would be taken to Storm's Ends, where Robert Baratheon had wished to be buried.

Esmae didn't shed a single tear. With everyone expecting her to be a weeping, grieving mess, she was set on being the opposite. Every day she would don an exquisite black dress, each more beautiful than the other, and would step out of her chambers with Ser Arys. Her face would be unreadable, its paleness slowly becoming a fashionable trend among the noble ladies. They used powders to hide the kisses of the southorn sun. It was easier for Esmae, who achieved such a look from sleepless nights spent combating the plethora of nagging thoughts that didn't leave her even in the daylight.

She spent the majority of her time with Tommen, reading him stories of Storm Kings. He took quite a liking to those, abandoning his obsession with the Targaryens. Their father would be proud of him, Esmae knew. _If he had taken the time to get to know his son_. Tommen was too young to understand what was going on but even he could feel the tension, desperately clinging to his sister's skirts while his mother was too busy pampering the new king. Myrcella often hid in her garden with Septa Eglantine, her nature too gentle for courtly squabbles. Esmae would only see her at supper, by Cersei's side, hanging on their mother's every word.

If Cersei noticed a change in Esmae's demeanor, she didn't show it. She would smile at her and ask her questions about the day as if everything was normal. As if her husband hadn't died. _As if she hadn't killed him_. No, Esmae refused to think about it. Her mother was a vicious and calculative woman but even she wasn't vindictive enough to kill the king. And if so, why kill him now? There had been many opportunities, all she had to do was seize them. And yet she hadn't. Why would she do it now?

"Your brother will be fitted for his coronation tomorrow," Cersei told her at supper. Esmae raised her eyes from the plate, "I'll have them bring in some fabrics for you and your sisters," the queen smiled at Myrcella who looked positively enthralled by the news, "Something brighter. It is a celebration, after all."

"That would be splendid, mother," Esmae said flatly and took a sip of her wine.

"Will Lady Sansa join us?" Myrcella asked, her face blissfully innocent.

"I'm afraid Lady Sansa is still quite ill, sweetling."

Esmae fought a snort and put a piece of pork in her mouth instead. _Yes_, she supposed, _Lady Sansa_ was _ill because you imprisoned her father and slaughtered all of their household_. Esmae still couldn't believe that Joffrey'd had everyone killed. Even the poor Septa's head was now gracing the Trator's Walk, along with young serving girls and squires. Sansa Stark was held in the Maegor's Holdfast in the prison of her own, locked behind the chamber doors. The same fait would've awaited her sister Arya, had the girl not escaped Ser Maryn's clutches and run away. Cersei had sent men to look after her but the wolf-girl hadn't been found yet. And Esmae doubted she ever would be. But the queen was restless, for the two girls, along with their father, were great bargaining tools against Robb Stark, who held a valuable hostage of his own.

Cersei had raged when the news of Jaime's capture reached the small council. If it were up to her, she would've exchanged the Starks only to have her twin back in the capitol. But the council would never allow it, and Robb Stark was too good a war tactician to accept such a treaty. They called him king now. _King in the North_. Remembering how reluctant he was to accept his lordship, Esmae couldn't imagine Robb Stark bearing a king's burden. Fighting the war he didn't want. Wearing the crown that was too heavy.

_The Starks are traitors_, Cersei had told Esmae once, her words dripping with venom, But Sansa can be saved yet. Esmae had wanted to say that she needed no saving. For any saving from Joffrey would surely be the girl's doom. But she had stayed silent, letting her mother sing her vengeful song.

Esmae new a traitor when she saw one — she lived amongst them her whole life. And Lord Stark was no traitor. Naive, yes. Prideful? Without a doubt. But he was too honorable to betray the king, his loyal friend, alongside whom he had fought two wars. No, Eddard Stark hadn't betrayed her father. But he had been betrayed.

* * *

The golden light of dawn was streaming through the windows of Esmae's chambers and fell on the side of her face, its warmth caressing her skin. She was sat at the table, a quill in her hand — she was writing a response to the Citadel. It appeared they had little information to share about Maester Malleon, much to Esmae's chagrin. Thus, it left her with no other choice.

There was a barely audible knock.

"Come in."

"You wished to see me, Your Grace?" Ser Arys entered her chambers and walked to the table, his heavy armor clanking in the silence of the room.

Esmae raised her eyes at the knight and put the quill aside. Ser Arys was a tall man with a heavy presence that she hadn't been able to avoid for the past couple of weeks. He was no longer a shadow, but a true, red-blooded man who stood by her side. Who cared for her and kept her safe. She felt safer with him and vulnerable when he was away on the king's command. But most importantly, Ser Arys was loyal.

While all the Kingsguard served the king and the Queen Mother, Ser Arys served her, and proved it on countless occasion by keeping her secrets from the queen. He told Cersei nothing of Esmae's midnight trips to the godswood and of the many times she had snuck out to see Fenwick.

"Can I trust you, Ser Arys?"

He was startled by the question, "I'm a poor judge of that, Your Grace."

"So you say I can't?"

"I say it's your choice. I wouldn't want to risk swaying Your Grace into my confidence," he replied curtly, but Esmae noticed his lips tagging into a soft smile.

"How honorable of you," she said, looking up at him with laughing eyes, "So I'll have but myself to blame for putting my trust in you should you betray it."

Ser Arys nodded. Esmae sighed, "Very well. Then I shall be my own executioner," she looked into his soft ember eyes, ignoring the little tug in her belly, "I need you to take me to the Hand's Tower. And," she said loudly when Ser Arys opened his mouth, "I need you not to ask any questions. And most importantly, Ser Arys, I need you to tell nothing of it to the queen."

He was surprisingly quick to agree to these terms, "And if she asks?" was his only question.

"I need you to lie."

* * *

It was strange to be here after what had happened. It felt wrong.

Even though Tywin Lannister had been officially named the new Hand of the King, the Tower was still reminiscent of its previous occupant. Some things from the Starks' household remained in the rooms, scattered around, left in a hurry by the innocent people who had run for their lives. They hadn't run far.

"Your Grace?" Ser Arys's low rumble echoed through the empty hall, distracting the princess from her musings.

"You shall wait down here," Esmae told him and made for the stairs that led to the Hand's solar. Eddard Stark's solar.

The door opened with a creak, letting out a gust of fresh air. Esmae stepped inside and took a look around the room: it was untouched, as though Lord Stark had just left for a council meeting and would resume his business upon his return. Piles of papers covered the table in disarray, some scattered around the floor. It must've been the wind from the balcony. Esmae walked further inside and stilled when her eyes fell on the very thing she had come for — the book. It was still resting atop the table, beneath the heap of letters.

With bated breath, Esmae sat herself in the Hand's chair and laid her hand on the leather cover of the grand tome, tracing the golden imprint with her delicate fingers. The book was centuries old, its pages yellow and wrinkled as she skimmed through them. Esmae couldn't help a disappointed frown when she realized that it was nothing but a list of weddings, deaths and births, each section dedicated to one of the great families of Westeros.

Lord Stark had been following Jon Arryn's trail all this time and it had brought him to this very book. The book that had Lord Arryn killed and could possibly lead to the death of his immediate successor. What was so fatal about it?

Esmae let out an exasperated sigh after inspecting the section on House Lannister which was a boring compilation of golden-haired lions marrying into prominent families to double their wealth. The Targaryens were a tad more interesting if only for the incessant intermarriage, with someone outside of the family thrown in once in a while. When Esmae turned over the page, however, she froze. _'Baratheon'_ said the title, embellished with a drawing of a proud stag.

The first name on the page belonged to Orys Baratheon, king Aegon's infamous half-brother, if the many stories were true. The man was said to have black hair, just like all of his many sons and their sons after. Esmae opened the next page, "Borros Baratheon, black of hair," she read under her breath, "Corwen Baratheon, black of hair. Arion Baratheon, black of hair," Esmae's finger trailed lower, her frown deepening, "Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair. Symond Baratheon, black of hair…"

The list came to a rather abrupt end right there. It seemed that Maester Malleon had died with no one to pass on his legacy to, and the book was forever forgotten. Until Lord Arryn had asked for it. The tome was a ponderous and an exceptionally boring read, and Esmae couldn't fathom why anyone would opt to read it on their own free will. Why would Jon Arryn be so interested in the lineages of the great houses? And the bastards —

"Gods," Esmae gasped and ran through the pages of the book again.

The Targaryens prided themselves on the hair of silver and eyes of purple, the Lannister were green-eyed lions of gold, and the Baratheons…

"Black of hair with eyes the color of a raging sea," Esmae whispered in shock.

The apprentice boy — Gendry — had black hair and eyes the same as her father's. And the babe at the brothel…the babe with a mop of dark curls on her head. Esmae looked down at her own brunette tresses that fell down her shoulders in gentle waives. All those times she had thought she didn't belong…

Joffrey's golden mane, exactly like their mother's, Myrcella's ringlets that were a shade lighter, Tommen's sandy blonde hair…

"No," Esmae murmured and jumped up from her seat, "No, no, no…"

But there was no use denying it. Now that the truth was there to grasp, Esmae realized that it was the very missing piece in the puzzle she was trying to solve. Now, everything fell together, creating a morbid picture she refused to look at. Because if she did, everything she hoped so desperately to be a lie would come true, and Esmae didn't think she could bare it.

If she looked at it, she would realize that her mother had been plotting behind her father's back the whole time. That she had orchestrated Lord Arryn's murder, using a poison — _a woman's weapon_. Esmae let out a deranged laugh at the ridiculous obviousness of it all. How could she have missed it?

Jon Arryn had figured it out and had enlisted Stannis's help — the help of Robert's true heir. That was why he had retreated to Dragonstone, away from court, in the fear of being targeted as well. And Lord Stark, the northern fool…had set himself up for the same fate. Cersei had got scared, scared enough to set her plan into motion. Scared that Eddard would learn her secret and tell the king that his heirs were nothing but bastards, and Cersei would lose everything she had suffered for. And so…

"_She killed him_," Esmae breathed in disbelief.

The book was shut with a dull thud.


	11. Stolen Honour

**A/N:** _Hey guys, thanks for all your favourites and follows! Also, sorry for any mistakes. It's 3 in the morning and I'm barely awake posting this._

* * *

The throne room had always been Esmae's least favorite place in the palace. It was cold despite the fires that set it alight, empty, however crowded it got, and filled with a quiet that seemed louder than the cheers of courtiers. Robert's court had always been a cause for celebration.

The king reveled in the love of his subjects, feigned or not, and liked to put on a spectacle for everyone to enjoy, be that a jester or a skilled singer who had been snatched from the streets of King's Landing and threatened into performing for the king. Robert Baratheon had almost succeeded in bringing joy to the place that had seen too much sadness. Almost vanquished the ghosts that wandered the halls and the smell of burning flash that lingered in the air. Almost.

Until all his efforts had been wiped away by the smirking creature that was currently seated in the spiked throne looking down on the gathered crowd with a tangible superiority. Impostor. Oh, how Esmae wished that one of the blades would miraculously run through his gut and color the floors of the throne room in crimson yet again. It was the Lannister color, after all.

The thought brought a twisted smile to Esmae's lips that grew into a snarl as her eyes turned to her mother. Cersei must have thought herself a mastermind and everyone a fool, sitting there with an enigmatic smile on her lips, high and mighty. Superior. Kingslayer.

Esmae felt her hands curling into fists, nails biting into her soft flash. The pain did well to take away some of the anger but left just enough for her blazing stare to draw Joffrey's attention. The little fraud turned his nose up even higher and smiled. He smiled.

"Grand Maester Pycelle," Joffrey called to the ancient man who stood at the center of the room awaiting the king's instructions, "I command you to read my decrees. It is a king's duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true."

Unlike you.

The Maester began to read out the names of all the enemies of the crown in his creaky voice. The list was long which shouldn't have been a surprise, for all one had to do to make it was to deny their fealty to the new ruler. Equally unsurprising, the number of such persons was quite high. But there was one name, one name in particular that sent shivers down Esmae's spine. Renly Baratheon.

Oh how foolish she had been to deny his invitation. How very naive. Of all the times she could've been stupid, Esmae had chosen the one that could cost her her life. She had made a deathbed promise to her father. She had promised to be there for Joffrey and try to shield him from the lions. But life was nothing if not mockingly ironic, twisting fate in spectacularly wondrous ways. One day you are the hunter. The next, you are the hunted.

Esmae felt the weight of her father's words being lifted from her shoulders. Joffrey was no son of Robert Baratheon, rendering her solemn promise to him null and void. She was bound by no vow, which meant many a great thing. But most importantly, it meant that Esmae was free to leave.

When Maester Pycelle ran out of the traitors' names, he tucked the list back into one of his sleeves and went on to make other, more positive announcements. The positive character of those was widely subjective, however. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the South would take up the office of Hand of the King in Eddard Stark's stead, which came as no surprise to anyone present. It was well known that Cersei had wanted her father to be appointed as Hand after Jon Arryn's death, and how disheartened she had been to learn that Robert had given the position to Lord Stark.

The next announcement, however, sent a wave of whispers and gasps across the lords and ladies. Esmae just let out an annoyed sigh.

"In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council…" She knew her mother would find a way to remain on the small council now that the new Hand had been named.

Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch, or the venal rat as Esmae liked to call the red-faced halfwit, was granted a lordship and the ancient seat of Harrenhal, or rather its ruins, for his noble service or very blurry moralities.

"Lastly," Grand Maester croaked, "in these times of treason and turmoil with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance…"

Esmae frowned.

"Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth," Cersei called out.

The Kingsguard left his place at the dais and kneeled before the king and the Queen Regent, "Your Grace, I'm yours to command."

"Rise, Ser Barristand," she said, "You may remove your helm."

The old knight did as was commanded and took off the high white helm, the look on his face that of bewilderment.

"You've served the realm long and faithfully. Every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. But it is time to put aside your armour and your sward. It is time to rest and look back with pride on your many years of service." The court broke down in whispers.

Esmae felt her heart ache when she looked at Ser Barristan. The great knight appeared equal parts speechless and embarrassed, "The Kingsguard is a sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death relieves us of our sacred trust."

"Whose death, Ser Barristan?" Cersei countered airily, "Yours or your king's?"

"You let my father die," Joffrey accused from his mighty seat. He is not your father, Esame wanted to scream. Wanted to see the look on Cersei's face. Wanted everyone to know the truth about the man, the boy, they kneeled to. "You're too old to protect anybody."

"Your Grace…"

Cersei cut him off, "The council had determined that Ser Jaime Lannister would take your place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"The man who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to protect," Ser Barristan seethed.

"Careful with your words, Ser," Cersei warned.

"We have nothing but gratitude for your long service, good Ser" Lord Varys spoke up, his voice gentle and suave, "You shall be given a stout keep beside the sea with servants to look after your every need."

The disdain on Ser Barristan's face was enough reply to their generosity, "A hall to die in, and men to bury me," he reached to unclasp his cloak. The court gasped as the garment of snow fell on the marble floor, "I am a knight," he told them and undid the fastenings of his breastplate, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clatter, "And I shall die a knight." Next followed his gloves, then his helm as he looked up at the queen and her son in defiance.

"A naked knight, apparently," Lord Baelish quipped and the crowd laughed. But what must've hurt more, Esmae thought, was the mirth in his fellow brothers' eyes. The men he had trained and mentored. Only Ser Arys showed no emotion, standing stiffly as he always did.

Esmae ached to speak up buy knew that it would do little to help. An act of open defiance to the king would put her loyalty into question, and that was the last thing Esmae needed in the current circumstances. Unable to look at the old knight any longer, she let her eyes wander around the room, looking at the deranged, smiling faces of the lords. They won't be laughing when it will be them facing the king's judgment.

Esmae's eyes stopped at the beautiful hairdo of bright auburn. She knew that Sansa Stark had been given freedom of the castle for her good behavior. Cersei was nauseatingly sweet to the girl, like one would expect a butcher to treat the animal he is to kill — fear made the meat taste bitter. This freedom, however, came with a set of guards that were to limit it when needed. Esmae wondered what had made Sansa come here of all places. She would've thought the girl would do everything to avoid Joffrey.

The laughter instantly died down when Ser Barristan drew his sword. Some of the girds jumped forward to confront him but the old knight did nothing, giving them but a look of pure contempt, "Even now I could cut through the five of your like carving a cake," he spit out and tossed his sword to the foot of the Iron Throne, "Melt it down and add it to the others."

With that, Ser Barristan Selmy, the man who had been her father's loyal protector and good friend, the man who had been kind to the lonely princess when she had asked him if she could see the king when he was clearly preoccupied, the man who would humor Tommen's incessant questions about knighthood and who loved them as family, walked out of the throne room. His steps echoed through the deafening silence and slowly died down.

"If any man in this hall has other matters to settle before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence," the herald spoke.

For a good minute it seemed that no one would dare say a word after such a scene but Esmae noticed a small movement in the crowd. Oh, for the love of the Seven…

"Your Grace," Sansa's trembling voice called out.

"Come forward, my lady," Joffrey beckoned with a smile.

As soon as the herald announced her name, the murmuring ensued. Lady Sansa stepped forward, albeit hesitantly, all eyes on her small frame. She had always been petite, but now the girl looked even smaller, frail and weak. It seemed the weeks of imprisonment had had their toll on her.

"Do you have some business for the king and the council, Sansa?" Cersei asked.

"I do," Sansa knelt before the throne and looked up at the king, "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark who was Hand of the King."

"Shall I remind you, young lady, that your father has committed terrible crimes," Great Master Pycelle intoned. "Treason is a noxious weed. It should be torn out. Root —"

"Let her speak," Joffrey snapped at the old man and turned his attention back to Sansa, who was already swooning. Is she not right in the head? "I want to hear what she says."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Petyr Baelish asked from the council table.

"No, my lords. I know he must be punished," Sansa admitted tremulously, "All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was king Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must've lied to him…Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or…somebody… they must've lied…"

"He said I wasn't the king," Joffrey reminded her shrewdly, "Why did he say that?"

"He was badly hurt," Sansa was quick to reply, "Maester was giving him milk of the poppy, he wasn't himself. Otherwise he never would've said it."

"A child's faith," Lord Varys sang, "Such sweet innocence. And yet they say that wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes."

"Treason is treason," Maester Pycelle said.

Joffrey leaned forward in his throne, "Anything else?"

"Only…that as you love me, you do me this kindness, Your Grace," Sansa replied.

Esmae couldn't believe the girl to be quite so daft. Surely, at that point it had to occur to her that there was no affection for her in Joffrey's heart? Thus she came to the conclusion that Sansa Stark was either spectacularly slow or incredibly smart. Both of those things, however, were hard to believe.

"Your sweet words have moved me," Joffrey had finally concluded, "But your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king. Or there'll be no mercy for him."

"He will," Sansa said eagerly, a small smile blooming on her face, "Oh, I know he will."

* * *

Maegor Targaryen had been a cruel and ruthless man with a penchant for paranoia, three qualities that together made for a terrible ruler. A vile tyrant, he took great pleasure in hurting people and seeing them suffer, which was made possible by the construction of the four-leveled prison underneath the castle, each more dreadful that the other. The fourth level was said to be the pit of seven hells; a place filled with screams and stanched with the smell of blood.

Eddard Stark had been thrown into the Black Cells, one level above the torturous abyss. Esmae knew that because Cersei liked to talk when she had enough to drink and was prone to share some bits of information, forgetting about it the next day. And Esmae needed to see him. Unfortunately, she couldn't go down there by herself without drawing attention, and the only person who could help her go unnoticed was Lord Varys.

She had had Melysa deliver the message to his little birds. Away they had flown, bringing the words to their master, who hadn't taken long to give his reply. Lord Varys had agreed to help her. It scared Esmae, the ease with which he gave his consent. The Spider wanted something in return, and she feared of what that something could be.

Esmae had left her rooms after the dusk set in without much trouble. Joffrey had ordered for his Kingsguard to do their duty — guard the king, whose safety was paramount, especially after the untimely death of the previous one. Esmae couldn't say she minded that. Not one bit. Lately she would catch Ser Arys studying her every move, listening to her conversations with unusual intent and always wondering where she was headed. It was quite liberating to know that no one stood at your door while you slept. It was also quite liberating to know that no one would stop you from sneaking out.

And there she was, standing at the entrance of the cell, looking into its darkness. A faint, dying fire shed some light onto the straw that covered the floor, the cold stone walls with no windows and the figure of a man in the corner. He didn't notice her, his head hung low. Esmae stepped inside despite the horrendous smell of dirty flesh and urine. There was no time to worry about her gentle sensibilities.

Her skirts rustled against the straw, and the noise made Eddard Stark look up. "Another visit?" he rasped, voice dry from disuse.

Esmae stepped closer and slid off the black hood from her head, the fire from the torch she was holding spilling light on her face, "I'm afraid this is my first."

Eddard's eyes widened in surprise as he studied her as if trying to decide whether she was real. Esmae supposed that after so much time spent in the darkness, one began to see things. To lose their mind.

"Your Grace," he breathed in shock, "Is that…" he gulped and looked her over again, "Are you really here?"

"I am indeed, Lord Stark," Esmae eased a skin of water out of her robes and handed it to the man before her.

Eddard accepted the offering with no qualms and guzzled it down. It was a terrible sight — a man so honorable and just reduced to a sickly beggar. Esmae almost felt bad for him, except she had warned Lord Stark to be more careful and he hadn't listened. He had brought this upon himself.

"Sansa…" Eddard croaked out when the skin had been emptied, "is she —"

"She remains unharmed," for the time being.

"I ought to have heeded your words," he said hoarsely after some time of silence.

"It does not do well to dwell on the past, my lord. Better think about the future."

Lord Stark huffed out a coarse laugh, "Mine is already decided."

Esmae sighed. Eddard said nothing. A cold silence engulfed them, only the sounds of Lord Stark's ragged breathing disturbing the quiet.

"I found the book," Esmae told him.

He raised his sunken eyes at her yet again, the grey orbs glistening with apprehension and interest.

"And the bastards," she continued. At that, Eddard's eyes widened. Perhaps he was thinking of how scandalous it was that the gentle princess had visited a brothel.

"Then you know the truth," there was a certain resignation to his voice.

"There is no single truth, Lord Stark. I know a truth, and I'm sure that my mother has one of her own."

Eddard stayed silent for some time, before he spoke again, "I've failed your father. He knew…he knew something wasn't right and trusted me to keep the realm safe and I let them — "

"He would've been killed nonetheless, my lord. There was little any of us could do." Esmae's steely voice cut through, "My father made a lot of wrong choices, Lord Stark, becoming king being one of them. But making you his Hand, putting his trust in you, might just have been one of the very few things he did right."

The look in Eddard's eyes made Esmae uncomfortable. The steel reflected surprise and fascination, the cold surface glimmering with respect.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Don't thank me yet, my lord," Esmae told him, "Your daughter begged for the king's mercy. Joffrey has promised to grant it to you if you tear your honor to shreds and admit to being a traitor," she watched Lord Stark intently, but the man's face remained blank, "I hope this time you are going to make the right choice."

"I am not sure which is the right choice anymore."

"I'd think it's quite easy — the one that doesn't get you killed. You're going to be proclaimed traitor either way, Lord Stark. But I hear traitors with a head on their shoulders have more fun."

"You would have me confess?"

"No, I wouldn't put my trust in Joffrey's false promises. Who's to say he won't change his mind?"

"But Sansa…"

"Will be alright," Esmae told him, "I'll see to it."

"How?" He asked curiously, "What do you intend to do?"

Esmae thought for a moment, fires dancing in her emerald eyes, "Wait. I intend to wait."

* * *

The forest was dark and quiet but for the rustle of wet leaves underneath her feet and the howling of the wind. Easton felt cold and bare in a thin shift as she walked through the green thicket, trying to see through the bushy wilderness surrounding her. In the darkness, she could notice a thin coat of snow covering the ground. Dancing flakes fell from the starlit sky glistening in the gloominess of the dusky forest akin to a myriad of fireflies. Winter had come.

Esmae felt lost but strangely at peace, as if she knew the old trees surrounding her. As if her feet knew the soil she was walking upon. As if her eyes were used to the darkness. Her ear instantly caught a sharp crack that resonated through the forest — a branch broken. Esmae's head snapped to where the sound had come from, and through the murkiness she could make out a light silhouette.

Esmae called after the intruder but the answer was only a ringing silence. So she walked off the beaten path and wandered into the wilderness to follow the sound. Esmae shielded her way through the claw-like branches and found herself in a moonlit clearing. In the very heart of it stood a magnificent stag.

Esmae halted, frozen in place by the sight, watching the gracious animal feed on the grass. Careful not to scare it away, she made a cautious step forward and then another, moving closer and closer to the horned animal. And then she stopped.

First, she heard the growl. It vibrated through the still air and made the ignorant stag raise its head in alarm. Then, she saw the thick main that adorned the feline face like a halo of sunshine. The lion's green eyes flashed in the darkness like two emeralds, and they were set on her. He growled again, this time baring his sharp fangs.

"Run!" Esmae yelled at the stag. But the animal didn't budge. The lion moved towards its simple prey, prowling on his great paws, "Run!"

Before the lion managed to make his attack, Esmae picked up a rock from the ground and threw it in the stag. Finally, the animal jerked and ran off, the sound of hooves echoing through the quiet. The lion stopped and snarled in Esmae's direction before he started moving stealthy towards her.

Esmae knew she was in danger, knew she had to run but found that she couldn't move. Meanwhile, the lion grew closer and closer, his eyes bright and wild. She took s deep breath, sending a puff of hot air in the cold.

The lion roared and made his jump.

Esmae woke up with a gasp. Her hand instantly reached for her throat where she could still feel the beast's sharp claws tearing though her skin. But it was intact, silky and soft underneath her fingers. Lions, unfortunately, lurked in the shadows still.

The chambers were engulfed in a gentle morning light, and the busy sounds coming from the window told Esmae that the day had long broken. As if on cue, a pair of handmaidens came rushing through the doors, none of whom, curiously, was her dear companion.

"Where is Lady Melysa?" Esmae finally asked when the two girls finished fussing over her dress. They had chosen one of light purple, made of gentle flawing fabric embellished with golden water lilies.

"We do not know, Your Grace," one of them replied.

With a frown on her face, Esmae sat still while they braided her hair, and nearly jumped on her feet as soon as the handmaidens' work was done. She stormed out of her chambers like a force of nature but stopped when she heard the familiar clanking coming from behind.

"Ser Arys," Esmae greeted him, ignoring the feeling of gratitude at his sudden reoccurrence.

"Your Grace," he bowed his head.

"Did you see one of my handmaidens, Lady Melysa, by any chance?"

"I'm afraid I did not, Your Grace."

Esmae's frown deepened.

"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" the knight's voice sounded strained, as if the words seemed foreign to him.

"She has never done this before. I fear something might have befallen her."

"An illness, mayhap?" Ser Arys wagered.

Esmae nodded absently, thoughts busy with all the tragic scenarios of her dear handmaiden's death, "Yes, mayhap," she sighed, "We shall go and enquire with the Septa."

The Kingsguard nodded, his stance rigid again, and followed the princess down the corridor. Esmae knew that Septa Eglantine would be in Myrcella's chambers for the sewing lessons that she herself had thankfully long abandoned.

"Yes, Your Grace, I have seen the girl this morning," the septa told her.

"Did she look alright?"

"Your Grace?" the plump woman asked in confusion.

Esmae stifled an annoyed huff, "Did she seem unwell to you?"

"I don't think so, Your Grace. The young lady appeared to be in perfect health, from what I could see."

"How unhelpful," Esmae muttered as they walked away, "She is useless, I told mother so. No one in this castle listens to me."

"Would you rather Lady Melysa was indisposed, Your Grace?" there was a tinge of mirth in Ser Arys's voice.

"At least that way I would've known what happened," the princess sighed, "Alright, let us go to the kitchens."

"The kitchens?"

"Lady Melysa always brings me some breakfast so that I could avoid spending it with my mother," Esmae explained nonchalantly and hurried in the direction of the great hall. She quickly spotted a pair of serving girls outside of the kitchens and didn't hesitate to stroll up to them.

One of the young girls had almost dropped her platter at the sight of the princess in this area. They were, however, much more helpful than the old septa.

"Y-yes, Your Grace, the lady Melysa came down to the kitchens to get Your Grace a bowl of porridge. She also asked for the Dornish grapes, but the kitchens were out of those, and —"

"When was that?" Esmae cut her off.

"Not long after the down broke, Your Grace."

Not too long ago, then Esmae thought. Then her eyes fell on the platter in the serving girl's shaking hands. It was filled with a skewer of wine, cheese and a serving of Lamprey pie. There was only one person who could ask for it at such an early hour.

"Is this for king Joffrey?" Esmae asked warily.

She knew how Joffrey loved the dish because it was one of the most expensive delicacies only the nobility could afford. In reality he hated the very taste of it and only ever ordered it to be made when he wished to flaunt his importance.

"Y-yes, Your Grace. The king wished to have his meal in his chambers," the serving girl stammered.

Esmae's face grew hot from the boiling anger within her. Without another word, she rushed towards the other wing of the Maegor's. Esmae lifted her skirts and quickened her pace, her mind too preoccupied to think about Ser Arys, who was trying to keep up with her in his heavy armor.

"I need to see the king," Esmae demanded through slightly ragged breath, staring at Ser Meryn with disdain. She always despised the man for his unnecessary cruelty and incessant leering. Esmae noticed the way his beady black eyes always followed Myrcella. There was something dark and unsettling behind them. He and Joffrey made for a spectacularly unfortunate pair.

"The king is not to be disturbed," Ser Meryn droned, not even sparing her a single look.

"It is urgent, Ser," Esmae seethed.

"Alas, Your Grace," there was little regret in the Kingsguard's voice or in his eyes when he finally deigned to look at her, "The king is preoccupied at the moment."

Esmae's hands curled into fists, "I order you to open these doors right this second, Ser Meryn. Or the queen shall hear of your blatant disobedience and your white cloak will grace the floors like your head a spike. Now, is the king still too preoccupied to see me?"

Ser Meryn's nostrils flared as he stared her down, mouth twisted in a snarl. His eyes then lifted to Ser Arys, who was standing behind Esmae's back. Somehow, she knew that if it came to it, Ser Arys would no doubt slice through Ser Meryn with his sword before the former could even draw his.

At last, the Kingsguard opened the door, albeit with much reluctance, "Her Grace, Princess Esmae," he announced.

Esmae passed by Ser Meryn with demonstrative dismissal and stepped inside, the door closing behind her. Suddenly, she felt trapped. She had never been in Joffrey's chambers alone before, only when they were children. Now, it was as though she had entered the cage of a wild beast that was lurking in the shadows, ready to attack her. But the beast was not hiding — Joffrey was sitting on a divan, his green eyes trained on her. Much like the lion from the dream.

But Esmae's attention was drawn to the slender figure sitting beside him. Lady Melysa looked a fright, her limbs almost visibly shaking.

"What are you doing here?" Joffrey asked, voice full of contempt.

Esmae ignored him and turned to her handmaiden instead, "Lady Melysa, I think we should go."

"She shall do no such thing," he cut in, "The lady is here upon my invitation, the king's invitation, and she shall remain here until I say otherwise."

"What does the king want with my handmaiden?"

Joffrey smirked and leered at Lady Melysa, who crumpled under his gaze, "I do not know yet. Perhaps, it will come to me later."

"Don't be absurd, Joffrey," Esmae bit out, "Let the girl go, can't you see she's afraid?"

Joffrey smile was sickeningly sweet as he looked at Melysa, "Is that true, my lady? You fear me?"

"I…" Melysa croaked, "It's…"

"Enough," Esmae's voice thundered. She came close enough to snatch Melysa by the arm and drag her up and away from the prying hands of the boy-king, "We are leaving."

Fuming with anger, Joffrey jumped to his feet, "Cease her!"

The Hound, who had been standing in the corner this whole time, moved towards the princess, his steps heavy.

"Don't you dare touch me," Esmae hissed at him and then said to Joffrey, "Do you think you can scare me, Joff? With your little pet dog?"

"I said cease her," Joffrey ordered.

Esmae jerked away from the Hound's hand but was soon trapped within his iron clutches. Lady Melysa was looking at her in horror, eyes round and helpless.

"You talk too much, Esmae," Joffrey said as he slowly made his way towards her, "All you ever do is talk, talk, talk…because words is all you have. But words can't do much, can they?" he sneered, enjoying the sight of her helplessness in the Hound's hands, "Fret not. It appears mother has some plans for you, so I guess you are not completely disposables after all. Doesn't mean I can't teach you some respect."

Esmae laughed, "Respect? Oh, dear brother, I will never respect you." Bastard. Bastard. Bastard, "You may have stolen the title but respect is earned, Joffrey. And you have done nothing to merit a single drop of it," she spit out right in his smug little face.

"I have stolen nothing, the crown is mine by birthright!"

"Is it?" Esmae whispered, "Is it really?"

The slap landed on her right cheek, setting the skin on fire. Esmae heard Melysa gasp in horror, but she didn't say a word. Didn't even whimper.

"This is your first warning," Joffrey threatened, "Next time, I will have you hanged for treason. Let her go, dog," he gestured to the guard. As soon as the Hound eased his grip, Esmae jerked away, closer to Melysa, "Now get out of here, both of you. You tired me," Joffrey waved them off and swanned back to the divan.

Without so much as a look in his direction, Esmae grabbed Melysa and pushed her towards the door.

"Your Grace…" the girl whispered.

"Not a word," Esmae told her when they walked out.

Ser Arys was still at the door, his face hard and unreadable. But his brown eyes, she noticed, looked darker than before. Angrier.

* * *

Esmae sat at the vanity table and stared at her reflection, unblinking. Her skin was pale and smooth as marble but for a faint bruise that was slowly appearing on her cheek. Melysa was doing her best to cover it with a deft mix of powder and rose water. The girl still looked quite shaken from what had happened, her eyes red from unshed tears.

"Lady Melysa," Esmae called, but the handmaiden kept on working on the bruise, "Stop." The poor girl jerked her hand away from the princess's face and stepped back.

"Look at me, Melysa. Did he touch you?" she shook her head slowly. "Did…" Esmae took a deep breath, hesitant, "did someone?"

Melysa didn't say anything for quite some time, her head bowed down. But soon Esmae noticed the quiver in her shoulders and the tremble of her lower lip — Melysa broke down in silent weeps, "Forgive me, Your Grace —"

"It was why you were sent here, wasn't it?"

The handmaiden nodded frantically, hand pressed to her lips to suppress the sobs, "It was…" she whispered, "…it was my betrothed."

"Oh, Melysa…"

"He was so handsome, so gallant…" Melysa murmured through her tears, "but it was only his face that was beautiful, only his words that were kind. I let them deceive me, and he…he said it would be alright…"

Esmae suspected how the story ended but was too afraid to ask, "He…"

"Married another," Melysa replied, more composed this time, "And my parents sent me away to avoid the shame."

The way he defended her honor against Ser Migil? I wish the men in our times were as gallant, she suddenly remembered Melysa's words.

Esmae had been trying to figure her out for months, failing to see through her smiles, through her kindness and the extended hand of friendship. Never had it occurred to her that there was nothing behind all those gestures — something Esmae could never have imagined. A person true to themselves and true to everyone around them. A little girl with a broken heart and stolen honor. Her friend.

"Your Grace," Both Esmae and Melysa turned her eyes to the open door, the moment broken, "Lady Sansa is here to see you. Upon your request," Ser Arys added with a slight nod as if reminding the princess of her invitation. Truly, Esmae had almost forgotten about it.

She looked at Melysa and gave her a curt nod, accompanied by a gentle smile. The handmaiden bowed her head, her eyes still glistening with tears, and made to leave the chambers, "Yes, she may come in," Esmae called. She inspected her face in the mirror to make sure the bruise was covered and rose from her seat.

"Your Grace," Sansa bowed when she walked through the doors, her auburn hair looking like wild tongues of flames in the dim lightening of the room.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa, how are you faring?" Esmae walked towards the table to pour herself a goblet of wine.

"I'm quite well, Your Grace," the girl replied in her clear, soft voice that was made for sweet songs, "The queen has been very kind to give me freedom of the castle."

"Kind indeed," Esmae nodded and took a sip from the goblet, "And what of your friend? The girl from Winterfell — Joanna, was it?"

"Jeyne, Your Grace. I've been told she is safe in the city, under Lord Petyr's care. She could no longer stay in the castle," Sansa said, her voice cracking a little.

Yes, Lord Petyr's care is known to be quite thorough.

"How generous of him to offer his help."

"Incredibly generous, Your Grace," Sansa nodded in agreement.

"It was very brave what you did, Lady Sansa. Speaking on behalf of your father," Esmae told her.

Sansa's cheeks flushed. "Thank you, Your Grace. I simply knew that Joffrey would show his great magnanimity. He is a great king."

Esmae let out a tired sigh and took a fair swig, "No, he isn't."

Sansa's face instantly fell, "Y-your Grace?"

"I asked you to come here for a reason, Lady Sansa," Esmae's words cut clean, leaving no room for further argument, "Everything is going to change very soon. The solid ground you're standing upon will turn into quicksand, and in the blink of an eye, you'll find yourself deep underneath it, fighting for a breath of air and slowly suffocating. Imagine me as the hand reaching through the darkness to pull you back up," she was looking at the Stark girl with burning intent, "Will you take it?"

"Your Grace, everything will be alright, you'll see," Sansa assured her, not a single tremble in her voice," My father will confess, and when he does, Joffrey and I will get married, and all will be well again."

Esmae regarded Sansa for some time, a look of resignation on her face, "You truly love him," she said.

"Of c-course I do, Your Grace."

"Tread slowly then, Lady Sansa," Esmae warned her, "You never know when you will fall through."

* * *

**A/N:** _Oh my, I wonder what'll happen..._


End file.
